


Mama Coulson Knows Best

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Clint, Hurt Clint Barton, Insecure Clint, M/M, Mama Coulson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>You’ve heard the one where they fake a relationship to hide their jobs. This is not that.</p>
</div>Agent Phil Coulson has always been entirely honest with his parents about his work. He hasn’t necessarily gone into detail, but they know enough. The one thing he will wax poetic about is his asset Clint Barton, the sniper known as Hawkeye. When a mission gone wrong affords Clint a look into the mysterious hidden life of his favorite handler, Mama Coulson gets it into her head that Clint’s job has just been a cover all along, and for a while she goes with it, because Phillip is a grown man who can make his own decisions. Clearly he and Clint are in love - and she for one couldn’t be happier - but the charade keeps dragging on and she thinks it’s about time they both come clean.<div class="center">
  <p>After all, Mama Coulson knows best.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Emergency Visit -->

“Talk to me Barton,” Coulson said quietly as he put on his blinker and turned onto a side street lined with small, cottage-like houses with neatly kept lawns. 

Cul-de-sacs, Clint thought they were called, but how would he really know?

This wasn’t his area, these postcard little communities with their matching SUV’s and their American flags waving happily from the front yard. Coulson had assured him that this was ok, that holing up in his childhood home with his parents for a few days was safe, but Clint was more nervous than he’d been facing down a roomful of drawn pistols and it showed. The sniper, who could maintain his position with a deadly stillness for hours while waiting for his mark, was shifting constantly in the passenger seat, his left knee bouncing like a piston and his hands curling and uncurling insistently, twitching for a bow.

It wasn’t the _area_ that made him anxious - the cookie-cutter, picture-perfect little houses - it was what they held, what they _were_ that was making Clint sweat.

Home.

Family.

 _Coulson’s_ family.

Clint didn’t… Clint didn’t do home, didn’t do family. He’d never had a real one growing up, on either count, not one that didn’t remind him of shouting and anger and abuse, not one that lasted more than a few months at a time and didn’t leave him feeling cold and hungry and small when he remembered it. He didn’t know what to expect or how to act, and the very thought of being dropped into the middle of _any_ wholesome, All-American household made him uncomfortable. The fact that it was Coulson’s…

Well, that terrified him.

It was more than just the fact that he was harboring a crush on his handler. Coulson was one of very few people he was close to, very few people that he trusted. He fully believed that he owed the man his life – without him by now he’d either be dead in a gutter somewhere or wishing that he was. No, it was more than that, more than the thought of being allowed a rare glimpse into the private life of the mentor that he knew so little about, that was so closely and jealously guarded, more than the fact that Coulson trusted him enough to bring him to his very doorstep…

No, Clint _respected_ Coulson.

It was a fairly foreign experience for him, respecting someone. SHIELD had introduced him to a number of men and women who were impressively skilled, competent and at the top of their field, men and women who were mostly good and who didn’t look down on him for who he was, who he’d been. His handler though, the man was something else entirely. Even without the completely ridiculous years of pining, he’d proven to Clint time and time again that he valued him, trusted his opinion on ops, believed in him, and he’d been the first one to do all that, perhaps in Clint’s whole life.

So it mattered to Clint, what he thought, and knowing that he was about to meet the man and woman who had raised senior agent, SHIELD legend, and certified badass Phillip J Coulson, nearly had Clint shaking in his boots. He’d faced down Hydra cells with less anxiety than this – give him a bow and show him a target and he was all ease and confidence. That stuff he knew, understood. That stuff he was good at.

This?

Not so much.

“Breathe Agent,” Coulson said beside him, a hint of bite in his voice that Clint recognized from their ops together, the ghost of the edge of a blade that reminded him to focus, to do what he did best. “I told you, my parents are aware of who I work for and what I do. Not the details, but they know enough. It won’t be a problem for them to put us up for a few days.”

“Right,” Clint muttered, feeling the tips of his ears go hot.

Of course, leave it to Coulson to be the consummate professional, to assume that Clint was worried about security clearance. And that _should_ be what he was worried about, inconveniencing the man’s parents or blabbing something that he shouldn’t, not panicking because he didn’t know how to settle in a living space that wasn’t a shitty refurbished studio or a nine by twelve box of a standard dorm back at HQ. Clint’s homes, such as they were, had been run-down trailer parks and the undersides of bridges and the hulking, linen tents and straw beds of the circus, not condominiums or sprawling ranch houses.

Christ, he was making himself nauseas imagining all the ways he could completely embarrass his boss in his own home…

“How’s your side?”

“What?” Clint muttered distractedly, wiping damp palms on the thighs of his jeans.

“Your side, Agent Barton.”

Aw hell, he knew that tone, the one that sounded like Coulson was just starting to get annoyed, but really meant that he’d passed pissed three miles back. Clint hadn’t answered him the first time - 

“It’s uh, it’s fine sir,” he reported, pain searing across his torso now that he moved his arm to check, actually started thinking about it again.

Come to think of it, that probably explained the chills and the fatigue threatening to hit him like a sledgehammer, rumbling around just beneath the anxiety-twitches.

He’d caught a bullet across his ribs on the way out of a warehouse almost an hour before, a grazing wound that looked a lot worse than it really was because it made him bleed like a stuck pig. His handler had barked and snarled about getting him Kevlar insets for his vest as they ran, but given that Clint had had the mobility to haul ass out of there firing arrows over his shoulder the whole way, he himself hadn’t complained.

Gunshot wound notwithstanding, it had been an easy mission, him and Coulson in and out, but apparently things had gone to hell in a handbasket back in New York while they were gone and SHIELD hadn’t been able to spare a Quinjet to come and pick them up. With no safehouse in the area and evac at least two days away, Coulson had radioed back to Fury that they were going to stay with his parents, duct-taped a thick pad of gauze against Clint’s side, and hustled him into an unmarked van before he could do more than marvel at the fact that the man had parents at all. The pool amongst the junior agents was currently three to one on him being an android versus having been whipped up in a lab somewhere as Fury’s perfect right hand, and sure, Clint knew better (because what kind of robot had a poorly hidden penchant for powdered-sugar donuts), but the man was simply too good, too observant to have been born to a regular mother and father somewhere like everyone else, right?

And speaking of observant, Coulson had evidently caught Clint’s silence, a note of pain or reluctance in his answer, or maybe he just plain hadn’t believed him, because he was staring at Clint intently with that little furrow between his eyes that he got sometimes, one of the many expressions Clint had yet to fully puzzle out. Concern, yes, that part was easy, but it wasn’t quite the same as it was when he was worried about his other friends or assets, not Nat or Jasper or Maria or anyone.

Just him.

The scrutiny made Clint squirm a little, dragging a gasp from his lungs when the pain in his side flared unexpectedly into a fierce, throbbing ache. Twisting gingerly in the seat, stiff from almost two hours in the car, he attempted to stretch his spine, actually assess his injury for the first time since they’d gotten onto the highway. Moving hurt, but not in the grinding, shifting way of broken bones. Bruised ribs then, beneath the long gash in his skin, but not cracked. That pleased him – shooting with broken ribs was a bitch.

Unfortunately, moving also opened the wound again, undoing all the clotting that had occurred and sending a fresh sheet of warm blood down over his side, soaking through the gauze and rapidly staining the grey cotton of his t-shirt a dull crimson.

“Shit,” he muttered, leaning forward and turning in place to grab a blanket from the back seat, one of the thin fleece throws they used for cases of shock and hypothermia.

“Get some pressure on it,” Coulson commanded quietly beside him, his eyes dangerously on Clint instead of the street.

“Gonna need stitches sir,” Clint hissed between gritted teeth as he lifted the hem of his shirt and pressed the folded blanket hard against his side.

“We’re almost there,” the man replied calmly, and hell if that steady, stoic voice wasn’t a godsend right now when Clint’s nerves were already on edge. “Just try not to bleed out on the seats. The van’s a rental - I’d like to get my down payment back.”

Clint snorted, groaned when a low chuckle jarred his torso. The banter wasn’t something new between them. It had started out as snippy sarcasm on his part and dry, deadpan wit on Coulson’s, his way of keeping Clint in line over the comms. It was a different approach from that of any of the other supervising officers he’d gone through, the first that Clint had ever approved of, and evidently unsettling for the other agents listening in on the ops, but it worked for them and it was the only thing that had worked with the archer who had already blazed his way through half the handlers in the organization. Over the years it came more easily as Clint became less mistrustful and Coulson not so stiff, and as time went on it was easy to start thinking of the calm, confident voice in his ear as a friend. Coulson’s jabs became more playful, Clint’s out and out flirtatious, but his handler never balked, always ready with a comeback that sometimes even managed to shut Clint up if it didn’t send him rolling off his perch laughing instead.

Within a month of becoming his sole handler the man had learned to play Clint like a fiddle, and at times like this, when he needed a distraction, needed a laugh, he found that he didn’t mind so much. He hated going to medical, and even though he knew that they were practically on the other side of the country, that he was safe from the huge, echoey white rooms that stank of antiseptic, just knowing that he needed attention made him tense up.

“Your mum’s gonna hate me,” he grumbled between clenched teeth, bracing himself against the side of the van as Coulson pressed down on the accelerator a little harder than he probably should. “Muck up all her… furniture.”

Beside him he thought he heard Coulson snort, but then there was a warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck, thumb sweeping over the hinge of his jaw one time, and shit, when did he get so _cold_?

“You’re going pale,” Coulson said, but his voice was just a little hazy in Clint’s ears, and he wondered if his aids were giving out on him again. “Barton. Barton! Sitrep, now.”

“Going a l,l,little foggy… b,b,boss,” he shivered, wobbling in his seat as he blinked and swallowed hard.

It was the best report Coulson was going to get out of him at the moment. Exhaustion had dropped on him out of nowhere but he was used to this, knew this feeling. It was dehydration, low blood sugar, low blood full stop as it leaked steadily from the wound on his side, his skin gone cold and clammy. It was a relatively minor wound all things considered, a relatively minor mission, but Clint had been on three others back-to-back just prior to this one, and he was starting to get run down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real meal or a real night’s rest, and it was finally catching up with him.

But he’d lived through a lot worse hadn’t he - missions and torture and childhood traumas. You name it, Clint Barton had probably survived it. An alcoholic father, an abusive mentor, hard recruitment that led to regular gunfights and kidnapping by terrorists, even a freak tornado the one time.

He would survive this too.

He just needed a little…

“Fuck!” Clint yelped, jerking upright and fully awake again as Coulson dropped his hand to Clint’s side and squeezed, putting hard pressure on his bruised ribs and the track dug out by the bullet. It hurt like hell but the pain was revitalizing in its own way, bringing him back around better than anything else would’ve.

“Almost there Specialist.”

This time when Clint hissed, he only hoped he was successfully passing it off as pain.

God he loved that title, loved hearing his handler say it. More than he should, probably. It was just a thing – there were a dozen other agents at SHIELD at any given time with the same rank, Nat included, but… he liked it. He liked hearing, _knowing_ that he was good at something, the _best_ at something, liked knowing that there was a place and a position for him that he’d earned. That he had gained the respect he was now afforded with his own two hands, that he was _needed_ , not quite as dispensable as he’d always been.

And when _Coulson_ said it…

Probably not the best time to be fantasizing about his boss.

Not there was ever really a good time for that, was there?

It didn’t matter though, because Phil was pulling up in front of a modest little house, pale grey with shutters and a front door painted a maroon so deep that it was almost purple, and oh yes, Clint thought a bit deliriously, he could like the people that lived here. He was still trying to figure out a way to get SHIELD to add a little color to his tac suit, or at least his arrows, but Coulson, ever the pragmatist, kept pointing out the impracticalities of drawing attention to a sniper in the field.

He didn’t have much time to think about it either way - the house or the suit – because before he’d even realized that Coulson had killed the engine, the passenger door was being pulled open and he almost toppled out onto the sidewalk. Clint staggered, got his feet under him as he clung to the frame of the window, but standing seemed to sap what little energy he had left. He felt the ground start to tilt beneath him but then his boss was looping his good arm around his shoulders and hauling him up the walk towards that purple front door, ignorant of the childish fears Clint held deep in his chest for what might be behind it.

“Gonna scare your neighbors,” he slurred, too focused on where he put his feet to enjoy being pressed all down his boss’s side the way he sometimes got to when one or the other of them was hurt less badly than made the position strictly necessary.

“Trust me, they’ve seen worse,” Coulson replied flatly. “I grew up here, remember?”

Clint giggled, mortified seconds later when he realized that the half-hysterical bleat had come from him.

He was mentally tallying up a list of blood loss symptoms that would make up the bulk of his defense when the front door was thrown open and a woman stepped out into the little entryway, her hands on her hips.

“Phillip Jareth Coulson, what on earth!”

Clint snickered.

“Jareth,” he teased, and then promptly passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh my goodness, Phillip!”

“Mom, can you lay some towels out on the guest bed? Dad, there’s a black med kit under the back seat - red cross on the side, you can’t miss it.”

Ignoring the way his mother fluttered and tittered around him, Phil dragged his unconscious asset into the house and down the hallway toward the room that had been his older sister’s, the room that had once been bubblegum pink and physically painful for him to stand in. His parent’s had repainted when she’d moved out for good thank god, a pale blue that he typically found quite calming but that did nothing for his nerves now. They were worn too thin, stretched too tight, ever since this op had started, ever since Clint had climbed down out of one Quinjet with dark circles under his eyes and jumped back into another without so much as a change of clothes or a snarky word of complaint.

‘ _Barton_ ,’ he scolded himself harshly, though he didn’t think he’d ever said the man’s first name out loud. It was hard enough already maintaining professionalism, proper distance, without crossing the line in his head, but he was tired and his agent’s little swooning act was anything but cute. As much as he liked… no, there were no qualifiers here. He was scared – he hadn’t realized Barton had been hit so badly. And that was his job, dammit, to bring his asset home in one piece, not to leave him open to enemy fire because he hadn’t noticed a third target approaching, too busy congratulating him for taking out the previous two. Distantly he knew that it probably wasn’t as bad as it seemed, even with the fainting spell, not so bad that there was need for a transfusion, but the sight of Clint - oh to hell with it! Clint, _Clint_! - the sight of _Clint’s_ pale face, sweat beading on his forehead and his upper lip… that had scared him like little else did.

But Phil Coulson was not a man easily ruled by his emotions, and it was second nature to lock those emotions away and do what he did best.

Take charge and manage the cleanup.

Supporting Clint’s weight and larger frame as best he could without putting pressure on his side, he waited while his mother stripped the duvet off the queen-sized bed, fluffing faded beach towels out over the sheets. Sending her across the hall for hot water and hydrogen peroxide, he tipped Clint onto the bed as gently as he could and tried to arrange his limbs into something resembling a normal human body. Not a simple task - when the archer dropped he dropped in a tangled sprawl of a mess - but by the time his father placed the med kit onto the mattress beside him he’d managed it and was slapping lightly at Clint’s cheek to wake him up.

“Go ‘way,” the younger man huffed, slowly blinking back to consciousness and taking a lazy swipe at Phil’s arm. “Man needs his beauty sleep Coulson.”

Phil allowed himself a grin, not surprised by his agent’s response but impressed as always by his ability to know who it was hovering over him on the bed. Anyone else, except Natasha of course, and Clint would have come up swinging. Phil had seen it often enough that for a long time even he was carefully hesitant of waking the sniper, preferring to toss shoes or paperbacks at his sleeping form from a safe distance as a method of getting him out of bed.

“You’re pretty enough as it is Barton,” he quipped back dryly, hauling Clint up by the shoulders and propping pillows underneath him so that he was sitting up at least a little bit.

The man’s face was still sheet white and his gaze was unfocused, eyes glassy as he blinked furiously to clear them, pushing himself up off the bed.

“Stand down Agent,” he murmured, well aware that Clint’s mind was racing in an attempt to remember where he was, if he was safe. The words allowed him to settle just a little bit, to breathe out a long, slow sigh that turned to a grimace when he stretched his side. His hand went automatically to his ribs and came away red and tacky, prodding Phil to get to work.

Reaching back for the med kit, he turned to look when his hand met fingers instead, found his mother waiting with a large glass of orange juice at the ready. She’d been a medic in the army for many years - surprising, since he most often saw poor reactions out of her when it came to blood and injury - but she knew how to buckle down when necessary. Nodding his thanks, he took the glass and drank from it before handing it over to Clint, who then promptly gulped down half of it without orders. As much as the archer hated medical, he was smart enough to know when not to argue, especially with his handler, and Phil had found that that small gesture, a sip or a bite for himself before he pressed food or drink on the specialist, went a long way toward diminishing his protests.

Unwilling to examine that thought too closely, Phil rummaged around in the med kit until he came up with a pair of safety scissors, grabbed the hem of Clint’s t-shirt and sliced it neatly up the middle.

“Aw shirt, no,” he mumbled, and the pout in his voice and on his face was enough to make Phil bark a laugh, enough to distract him from the toned muscle and golden skin he was revealing.

“I’ll buy you a new shirt Barton,” he reassured, peeling back the blood-soaked fabric and moving to the gauze, duct tape now curling and useless.

“But I _liked_ this one.”

“Pretty sure it was beyond saving. Best to put it out of its misery. Finish that,” he added, nodding toward the forgotten glass in Clint’s hand, and he sucked it down without hesitation, following the order blindly.

Taking the glass and setting it aside, Phil reached for one of the hand towels his mother had provided. Soaking it in hot water, he wrang it out with a quick twist and began cleaning the blood from Clint’s side in long sweeps from ribs to hip. Switching the dirty cloth for a clean one, he went for the peroxide next, carefully cleaning the long furrow the bullet had ripped across his torso and keeping his hands firm and steady when Clint sucked in a breath between clenched teeth, his skin rippling like a colt’s. God that had been close, so close, and he was glad that Clint was still half out of it and squeezing his eyes shut against the sting because there was no way The Amazing Hawkeye would miss the way he had to pause and clench his fingers to hold back the minute trembling, the nearly imperceptible hitch in his breathing.

“You were right about the stitches,” he confirmed, giving Clint something to focus on other than the harsh, cleansing burn of peroxide in an open wound.

“Gonna fix me up boss?” the man asked tightly, his hands fisted where he’d crossed his wrists atop his head.

It was almost painful, how badly he reacted to any kind of doctor, any kind of medical care, and it still made Phil’s throat close up a little bit that the archer would go still and pliant in his hands, would allow procedures under Phil’s eye that he otherwise wouldn’t tolerate. It spoke to a measure of trust that still astounded him sometimes, and was only ever afforded to him and Natasha.

“Only if you go to medical as soon as we get back,” he replied, pitching his voice low and firm, and Clint groaned in frustration. “You know the rules Barton. I’m no nurse. Dr. Danvers will lecture me but I’ll do a field dress if only to keep you from bleeding out all over my mother’s furniture.”

“Sorry Mrs. C,” Clint mumbled, half dopey and half ashamed, but from the way his eyes had glazed over again Phil doubted that the sniper was even fully aware of the fact that his parents were in the room. A quiet offer of painkillers from his mother a moment later shot that theory to hell as Clint came lurching upright off the mattress with a yelp, gasping in pain as his abdominal muscles crunched and pulled at his torn flesh.

“No,” he ground out, low and insistent even as his chest heaved and he twisted against the onslaught of pain, pressed up against Phil’s palm as he held him down to the bed. “Ow, _shit_ \- no… no drugs. Coulson…”

“Easy agent,” he said, keeping his voice to the deep, calm, steady rumble that always seemed to go such a long way in calming Clint down. “No drugs, no whiskey, I know the drill.”

And he did, because his father would have offered up the alcohol next, and Clint only ever drank for fun - vodka with Natasha, the good stuff she had imported from her mother country, cold and slick and sweet, or a couple of draft beers with dinner when he and some of his fellow marksmen got together. To mark an occasion, a birthday or a death, making it home when you hadn’t thought you would. Never enough to take his control, and never when he was already compromised. He never confessed to it but Phil was sure that the man was afraid - afraid of letting his guard down, afraid of becoming his own father…

And still after all these years unwilling to take anything that would diminish his defenses, take away his eyesight or his reaction time, his ability to draw a bow. Even with the measure of trust they _had_ managed to build between them, Clint was still unable to let himself float on a haze of painkillers unless the shock would kill him otherwise, unless he was too compromised or too unconscious to fend off an IV line.

Yes, Phil knew the drill.

So even if seeing his asset in pain was enough to make him nauseas, even if he could barely stop his own hands from shaking as Clint’s skin flinched and flickered when he poked a needle through it, he was more than willing to let the man make that decision for himself as often as possible. Because the alternative, the _fear_ in Clint’s eyes as the drugs began to drag him down or the wary irritation that spoke of much deeper things when he came back up, those things were far, far worse.

But he was fine, Phil had to remind himself of that, even as the bleeding slowed to almost nothing while he pulled the lips of the wound together and ran the needle in and out, an uneven line of dark surgical thread climbing down from Clint’s ribs toward his belly. It had been a while since he’d had to stitch anyone up despite his asset’s habit of getting himself into trouble and then reporting to his office instead of the medical wing. Still, he did his best, unable to stop himself from cataloguing all the other scars that stood out pale and silver and pink against Clint’s smooth, bronzed skin as he dropped the ladder of small, black sutures down his side. The lower he went the more the skin beneath his fingers quivered beneath his touch, and it amazed him that the man could still be ticklish at a time like this, when the pain should override everything else. He had to stop at one point, curl his palm around Clint’s side to soothe and steady, before he could pick up the task again and put in the last three. The snip of the scissors cutting off the tail of the thread seemed to be a sort of signal for Clint, because as soon as he was done the man let out a massive sigh of relief, his entire body shuddering from head to toe as he sank into the mattress.

“Gonna live boss?” he asked in a voice that was rough and raw, but there was a tired sort of smart-assed grin on his face and no real concern in the question, so Phil just chuckled.

“You’ll live,” he confirmed, looking him over. “Your color’s back and it looks like you’re done bleeding. I don’t think you lost as much as I thought you did. If I had to guess I’d say you’re exhausted - dehydrated, running on E...” Frowning, he stood up and began to repack the med kit. “We talked about this Barton...”

“S’not my fault,” Clint muttered petulantly, dragging his eyes open and folding his arms over his bare chest, affecting another pout.

Phil swallow at the sudden dry rock in his throat and dropped his eyes back to the med kit.

“I requested a pass on number three,” Clint sniffed. “Didn’t get a break between the first two. But they needed a good sniper - I couldn’t say no.”

He could’ve.

He just wouldn’t.

For as much as he didn’t know his own self-worth sometimes, Clint would never leave a team hanging.

It had been Sitwell’s op and Jasper was one of the few handlers that Phil was comfortable sending Clint out on a mission with if he wasn’t going along as well. He’d checked the mission parameters and he knew that they _had_ needed Clint, needed a guaranteed kill with the first shot, but from the way Clint had gone slack on the bed without so much as a preliminary clearing of the house, Phil knew for certain that SHIELD was running him to the edge of his endurance. They had more than one sniper, none as good as Clint of course, but assigning him three missions back to back, four including this one without sufficient downtime in between… they were putting more than just the op at risk.

They were risking Clint’s life, and the lives of the agents he was backing up. 

And if they’d flat out refused him a pass when he’d only ever formally requested three in all the years Phil had been supervising him, then they had a serious problem. SHIELD might be stretched thin these days - as evidenced by the recent lack of extraction and available Quinjets - but they couldn’t afford to take the human condition for granted.

Clint might have all the accuracy of the world’s most sophisticated targeting system, but he needed sleep just like everyone else.

“I’ll talk to Fury,” Phil said, more to himself than to Clint, who was already beginning to drift off. “Make no mistake agent, we do need you, but we need you at your best. Can’t have you start missing on us, can we Specialist?”

Clint’s mouth quirked and he made a dismissive huffing sound, his eyes fluttering closed as he settled deeper into the mattress.

“I never miss,” he mumbled, and Phil grinned, quietly gathering up the med kit and the bloody scraps of Clint’s shirt to keep himself from the sudden, strong desire to card his fingers through the man’s messy blonde hair.

“Go to sleep Barton,” he ordered, grabbing on to his scattered emotions and heading for the door, but he couldn’t help but grin when he closed it on a sleepy ‘ _yes sir_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the reads, kudos, and reviews so far! I love them dearly - you're all the best (:


	3. Chapter 3

Eloise Coulson had been many things in her time

A student and classically beautiful.

An Army nurse with a commanding glare that could stop Sergeants in their tracks.

Later a mother, three times over and a damn fine one too, even if she did say so herself.

She was a good cook, a voracious reader, and a lover of every one of the ridiculous jokes her husband Robert had ever whispered in her ear on a bad day. She was kind, steadfast, capable of leading any horse to water and convincing most of them to drink, but above all things she was observant.

She didn’t know as much as she’d like about her son’s chosen career - only what he’d told her, what she had the clearance for, and the rest that she’d managed to guess at. She understood that, respected it even if it was difficult. She contented herself with the fact that she knew enough, all the important things. She knew that he did good work and that he was highly respected in his field. She knew that he was decidedly close-lipped about the details, especially when any whisper of threat or bodily harm was involved. She knew, even though he didn’t say it, that those threats came often, to him and his team, and she knew that no matter how affected he was by those threats, he wouldn’t mention them.

She also knew that she only need mention a certain sniper’s name to loosen her youngest child’s tongue.

She’d never met Clint Barton herself, but within a year of first hearing him mentioned she felt like she knew him as well as she did her son. The long, rambling conversations he could hold about the archer, evidently without even realizing it, were practically waxing poetic for Phillip, and she’d long held suspicions that there was more to the story, more to the relationship than was purely professional. Her son had never hidden his preferences from her or her husband, had felt safe enough even at sixteen to tell them the truth, but he had always been very private in his romances, very serious. Not once had he brought a partner home to meet them, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling on her part had ever convinced him to bring Clint round. Instead it was all confused stares and rolled eyes, defiant silences that lasted too long or hard denials that felt too heavy.

She thought her reaction appropriate then, when Phillip showed up on her doorstep with a blue-eyed blonde hanging off his shoulder, coated in blood and only half aware of his surroundings.

Eloise Coulson’s son was many things.

Strong.

Courageous.

A closet lover of silent films.

An unabashed collector of Captain America memorabilia and, oddly enough, a terrible chess player.

He was not the type of man to let his emotions slip away from him under pressure.

Eloise was steady, an Army medic with nerves of steel, but her son was a man who did best under the gun, and he was _afraid_.

So it was the easiest of things to gasp a bit and flutter her hands, to hover around while he hauled the man inside the house and began giving orders in a calm, confident tone that echoed with much experience and none of the anxiety he’d shown when his agent had slumped unconscious on the porch steps. She didn’t need the directives, not at all, but her son needed to give them to steady his own hands, so she waited until he asked to cover the guest bed, to fetch supplies to clean a wound that her own experience told her wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked on first appearance, but easily could have been.

Eloise Coulson didn’t miss much.

Not the name of the poor man with the sweet face bleeding all over her sheets, not the tone of hero-worship that managed to come through the pain when he spoke to her son between gritted teeth.

When it became clear that an offer to perform the stitching herself would be declined – and poor boy, what had he been through the he would refuse medical attention, anesthetic? – she gestured for her husband to follow and slipped silently from the room.

“So,” he said quietly, tempered amusement threaded into the word. “That’s the infamous Hawkeye.”

Eloise hummed, went into the kitchen and took down the kettle from its hook beneath the cabinets. Filling it at the sink, she glanced over her shoulder to find him leaning back against the edge of the counter, his arms crossed loosely and a contemplative look on his face.

“It’s strange,” he continued as she turned back to the task of setting the tea to steeping. “First time I’ve ever laid eyes on the man but I knew exactly who he was.”

“Well of course,” she replied. “He’s practically all we’ve heard about for what - four, five years now? Our son’s not exactly subtle.”

“Ellie…”

“Oh hush,” she chuckled, waving off the careful warning. She was well aware of what her husband thought of her… theories. “The poor boy’s a mess - I won’t be subjecting him to the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Oh?” Robert asked with an arched eyebrow, amusement playing once again around the corners of his mouth as he slipped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “And what about Phil?” She turned to narrow her eyes at the man but couldn’t maintain her scolding glare when he pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her cheek. “Will our son be afforded the same?”

“The same what?”

Robert jumped, turned at the sound of their son’s voice but Eloise didn’t flinch, merely took the kettle from the stove just as it began to whistle and turned off the gas.

“Nothing sweetheart,” she breezed, “Your father’s just being silly. Now sit, sit, and tell us what happened. Is your young man all right? Do you need me to take a look?”

It was too much too fast, too many questions, but by the time he was thirteen Eloise had learned that sometimes the best way to get an answer out of her reticent son was just to overwhelm him, throw a dozen questions at the dartboard because probability said at least one of them would stick.

“He’ll be all right,” her son said, heaving a sigh as he sank onto one of the high chairs surrounding the breakfast bar. “It’s not as bad as it looks, he’s just run down. We’ve been pushing him too hard - God knows the last time he ate or slept like he should.”

“What about you?” Robert asked, getting a sharp, confused look as Eloise placed a cup of tea down in front of her boy. Phillip’s reaction was almost comical, the way he seemed oblivious to his own condition when he was exasperated at his archer for exactly the same thing. It wasn’t often that he visited, but he was still her son, and it was easy to read his weariness in the slope of his shoulders, the deepened lines around his eyes.

How much was physical and how much was emotional she could only guess at.

“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice was rough as he cradled his cup in both hands, breathed in the fragrant steam and hummed gratefully on the first sip. “Just wasn’t expecting today to go the way it did.”

“Well it was lucky you were so nearby,” Eloise said, sitting down beside him. “Since Marcus couldn’t send someone to pick you up.”

“It’s not his fault mother,” Phillip huffed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “We’re stretched pretty thin right now, everybody is. The Army, the Marines, we’re all in the same boat. But yes. I’m glad we were only a few hours away. And thank you, for putting us up for a few days. It would’ve been difficult to say the least - catching a commercial flight back with Clint bleeding all over the place.”

Oh, so it was _Clint_ now was it? No more Agent Barton?

Eloise bit back a smile, cast a look at her husband who rolled his eyes fondly.

“You know that you’re always welcome here son,” he said, squeezing Phillip’s shoulder. “And your mother’s wanted to meet your Agent Barton for years now.”

“Yes, and he’s _delighted_ with the first impression he’s made.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Eloise scoffed, waving a hand airily. “Apologizing like that, poor thing. Who on earth scared him away from medical help so badly?”

But that was apparently the wrong thing to say, because her son went terribly still and quiet beside her, his gaze suddenly far away.

“Well, never mind,” she murmured, getting to her feet again. “He has you to look after him now, and that’s what matters.”

It spoke volumes about the shadows her son had gotten lost in that he didn’t deny the statement, didn’t even react. Shooting her husband a look, Eloise rose to her feet again, left the men to the table to catch up in slow, hushed tones while she did what she did best. She was a dab hand at a good many things, but mothering, fussing, making someone feel worried over and cared about, well…

That was an art, and it was one that she’d mastered.

Right now her son needed that, and so she poured him a second cup of tea and puttered around a bit, let him speak with his father while she took ham, cheese, and tomatoes from the refrigerator, worked quietly in the background. She’d found through the years that just being near helped keep her children grounded, that knowing she was within arm’s reach was a comfort to them. Robert had always been the one they went to for a logical, working conversation, but from her they mostly appreciated silent support, a bite to eat and the assurance that a warm hug was waiting if they only reached out for it. _That_ was being a mum, and it was no hardship because it made something warm and soft grow in her chest as she looked across the countertop at her only son.

It had been so long since he’d visited - she hoped he was prepared to be smothered within an inch of his life while he was here.

And that poor man in the guest room - from everything she’d heard he was in more need of a mother than anyone she’d met, even the pale, quaking, untried boys she’d met in her Army days. Showing up on her doorstep that way he had - hurt, hungry, exhausted - he was well and truly in for it.

She didn’t know how many days they would be here, but the two of them would be kept warm and fat and happy until they left if she had anything to say about it.

Slicing two steaming sandwiches in half diagonally, Eloise turned off the stove and stepped back over to her son’s side, sliding the plate onto the table beside his elbow and squeezing his shoulder before she returned to the counter to clean up. Phillip seemed to take no notice at first, but he’d always been that way, distracted by his own thoughts. He had one arm braced against the tabletop, resting his chin on his fist and listening to his father talk about some repairs he planned to make to the back porch, his eyes drooping. Eventually he found the food, picked up a triangle and began to chew and swallow automatically, making it through three-quarters of the plate before he realized what he was doing and pushed the plate away.

“Why don’t you take a nap son?” Robert suggested quietly, and predictably Phillip shook his head.

“It’s too late,” he protested, pushing back in his chair to peer at the kitchen clock. “5:30…”

“Sleep then darling,” Eloise suggested. “You’re halfway there already. Just close your eyes for a bit, see where it takes you…”

“Maybe…” he frowned, but the effect was rather ruined when a huge yawn cracked his jaw wide. “I’d need to check on Clint first.”

“Will he be all right sleeping alone, in a new place?” she asked, and on her left Robert threw her a sharp look. “Perhaps you should stay with him.”

For a minute Phillip paused, and something around the corners of his mouth looked like a melancholy sort of longing, but it was gone so fast she was almost sure she’d imagined it.

“He’ll be ok,” he finally replied, shrugging roughly. “I’ll check on him, and leave the door open… he’ll be ok. Just don’t touch him. He has… nightmares sometimes.”

And because she knew what that was like, what PTSD and nightmares could do, she nodded and pulled her son into her arms, hugged him long and tight before dropping a kiss to his cheek.

“If you’re sure,” she agreed, giving him a gentle push. “Get some sleep sweetheart. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night mum,” he murmured, pecking her cheek.

A quiet contentment filled her as she watched him turn away, watched a handshake turn into a gruff, firm hug with her husband, and then her son was stumbling off up the hallway, toward the guest room where his special agent archer was out like a light. Serious and contained, her Phillip, but in the short time he’d been there she could already see something different about him, an obvious, unabashed worry over another person that she hadn’t seen from him since he was a skinny teenager, bluffing his way through encounters with his older sisters’ boyfriends. It was a bit disarming really, but as Robert slipped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, held her close, she realized that she was already determined to find out exactly what this young agent meant to her son, even if that meant she had to help _them_ figure it out first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy Thanksgiving luvs! I am so thankful for every read, review, and kudos I receive, and I am supremely thankful for all of you!!**


	4. Chapter 4

Clint’s used to nightmares. He’s used to going from dead asleep to wide awake in a second, his hand reaching automatically for a weapon before he’s even scanned the whole of the room. He’s used to lurching upright with his heart pounding in his chest as he gasps for air, his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat that makes him shiver, and he’s used to the cold assassin’s awareness that keeps him horribly, horribly calm.

Waking up slowly, easily, rising smoothly up to consciousness isn’t something he’s used to, but he thinks he might like it.

It’s… nice, even if it’s a little weird.

Stretching long and slow beneath a light quilt, he hummed with contentment, basking for a moment in the warmth trapped beneath the covers before he realized that he hadn’t heard the sound he’d made, only felt it rumble in his chest. His fingers went immediately to his ears - an old habit he’d never been able to break - even as he rolled onto his side and caught sight of his hearing aids sitting on the nightstand. The purple electronics were placed safely back from the edge, kept company by a glass of water and two small, white pain pills, the name printed across the capsules, and as he reached for them pain flared across his side, prompting a sharp intake of breath and closer inspection.

Tossing the covers back, he found a thick layer of gauze taped against his bare side, and the stinging, tugging sensation underneath caused a rush of memories to come flooding back.

Passing out on Coulson’s shoulder, waking up on a bed with a head full of cotton, unable to focus. The heat of his hand curled around Clint’s hip, the sharp bite of the needle poking through his skin.

He thought there might’ve been other people in the room… Coulson’s parents?

Coulson’s…

Oh.

Right.

They were in Coulson’s old house weren’t they?

Blinking with the realization, Clint took another look at his surroundings - cool blue walls, furnishings in pale blonde woodgrain, fluffy white curtains over the windows…

Definitely someone’s home, nothing like the dorms back at SHIELD. The bed proved that much, and oh god, the _bed_. Huge, soft, full of pillows and clean sheets…

Perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

He would’ve preferred not waking up alone, but given that the door to the bedroom was open a good three inches and there was a small folding knife tucked beneath his pillow, there was really no reason for Coulson to have stayed, was there? Those unwritten rules had been laid down years ago - there was a time and a place for sharing a bed, when it meant protection or body heat or staying alive, but even with the stitches running down his side, this situation hadn’t quite qualified.

But he’d checked in, hadn’t he? Coulson had?

Clint thought he remembered that much - a hand on his shoulder, a calm, commanding voice bringing him up out of sleep.

Coulson had coaxed him awake, gotten him to remove his hearing aids while he stripped him out of his boots and his belt, tugged his tactical pants off efficiently - and hadn’t that been one right out of a wet dream? Thank god he’d been mostly out of it, otherwise things might’ve gotten a lot more uncomfortable for everybody involved. Coulson though, Coulson was a boss, _his_ boss, and they’d run this drill before. Clint got banged up, bandaged up, and tucked in, left to sleep it off somewhere safe under a watchful eye.

 _Go back to sleep Barton_.

The whole thing had a quiet, wispy quality to it, like it had all been a dream, but the evidence that it really _had_ happened was all around him - the open door, the Ibuprofen, the knife under his pillow that belonged to the matched set he and Nat had gotten Phil for Christmas…

Rolling upright with a pained groan, Clint sat on the edge of the bed and threw back the pills, gulped down the entire glass of water. Kind of messed up given how much he bitched, he knew, but he had no problem taking a few mild pain killers when he was in full control of his faculties. It was always the control that got him. He couldn’t really explain the difference all that well, and trust him, he’d tried. He hated sounding like a damned prima donna or coming across as a too-tough macho prick, but there was only so much he could handle when his head was as scattered as it had been the night before.

Drugs didn’t help.

Lucky for him he’d made friends with the kind of people who understood that brand of crazy, the kind of people who didn’t need an explanation. Coulson let him complain, let him take risks in the field and sneak out of medical afterward, then turned right around and made sure he got what he needed anyway.

Sneaky bastard, god knew how he did it, but there it was.

Picking up his hearing aids, Clint frowned as he rattled them around in his palm, unwilling to stick them back in his ears before he cleaned them first. There had to be some rubbing alcohol around right? Wasn’t Coulson’s mom some kind of…

Oh _god_.

Coulson’s _mom_.

And his dad too.

Clint’s eyes went wide and he froze like a deer in the headlights as his gaze trailed slowly over to the open door, providing him with a thin glimpse of the hallway beyond.

 _Shit_.

How did you introduce yourself to your boss’s parents, the man you owed _everything_ too, especially after you show up unconscious on their doorstep and bled all over their furniture?

Wearing pants, that was how.

Suddenly realizing that he was standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a pair of deep purple briefs, Clint bit back a yelp and crossed his hands over his junk, diving for the pair of cargoes that had been folded neatly atop the dresser. He jerked them up over his hips so fast he almost tripped, but he felt significantly less freaked once he had them on. A shirt would’ve been nice but there was no way he was going to start poking around where he didn’t belong, so he’d just have to risk running the gauntlet and slip out to the van for his…

Duffel bag.

Which was sitting in the hallway outside the door, tucked neatly against the wall.

Oh thank jesus.

He’d made enough of a terrible first impression already, thank you very much.

Grabbing the strap of the bag, he tossed it onto the bed and dug down for a clean t-shirt, black with purple stripes around the biceps. The almost-absence of the muffled swish of cotton being tugged down over his head reminded him again that he was practically stone-deaf without his aids in, and while normally he could deal, in this new situation, when he didn’t want to screw things up, he’d rather have his hearing.

Out it was then.

Besides, he couldn’t hide in the back bedroom all day.

Plucking up his courage, he padded barefoot out into the hallway, guessed at which way to go, and found himself being lured out into a neat little kitchen by the mouthwatering scents of coffee and bacon. As he stepped out into the sunny little room from the shadows of the hallway he felt his stomach swoop, anxiety flushing hot beneath his skin. Coulson was sitting at the end of an island countertop, halfway hidden behind an enormous stack of pancakes and seated beside an older man with a surprisingly thick head of hair. A woman stood at the stove, her back to the room, but Clint knew in his bones that that was Mrs. Coulson, and he had vague, hazy memories of ‘meeting’ them the day before, mumbling an apology through a fog of pain and exhaustion.

 _Aww, Clint, no_.

Well… second time’s the charm, right?

Here goes nothing.

Taking a breath, Clint let his nerves settle and cleared his throat, only to have all three Coulsons turn in place and practically pin him to the wall. God he hated being the center of attention anymore. Mr. Coulson - Robert, he thought - gave him a brief but welcoming nod over the rim of his coffee mug and went back to his eggs, and thank god for that. Coulson, his Coulson, was giving him a close, careful once over, eyes lingering on his side as though he could track the stitches he’d put in beneath Clint’s shirt, and that was a little too much this early, so Mrs. Coulson it was - and she was giving him a smile bright enough to blind. He caught a cheerful good morning on her lips before she turned back to the stove, the rest of the greeting falling on deaf ears.

“Um, good morning,” he mumbled, scrubbing the back of his neck with his free hand and feeling horribly, unbearably shy. “Sorry, I…”

Coulson tracked the vague movement of Clint’s hand near his ear and straightened in his seat, making a sign of his own as he hurried to swallow down a mouthful of pancake.

 _Aids_?

“Wanted to clean them first,” Clint said, hoping he’d gotten his volume right. He could be a little loud sometimes, especially this early when his head was still foggy.

Phil made the sign for ‘medical’ and pointed over Clint’s shoulder, to the SHIELD med kit tucked back beneath the cabinets. Dropping a quick _thanks_ , Clint rummaged through for alcohol swabs and gave the electronics a thorough wipe down before slipping them into his ears. He was greeted by the pop and sizzle of bacon on the stove and the low, rough gurgle of coffee brewing, the soft rattle of newspaper as Mr. Coulson turned a page, and the return of his hearing was more of a relief than he’d expected it to be.

At least until Coulson cleared his throat.

“Agent Barton, my father Robert Coulson,” he introduced, gesturing to his father who turned in his seat and offered Clint a firm, warm handshake.

“Agent,” the man greeted, and Clint shook his head.

“Clint’s fine,” he said, “Or… Barton, I guess. That’s what Coulson… um, _Phil_ calls me.”

Robert chuckled, shot his son an unreadable look and went back to his paper while Phil rolled his eyes, something Clint wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him do before.

“And this is my mother,” he said, turning to the right as Mrs. Coulson brought a second heaping platter of pancakes to the table, “Eloise Coulson.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you Clint,” she smiled, balancing the plate on one hand to extend the other for a shake. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Oh, um…” he mumbled, darting a glance at Coulson who had narrowed his eyes at his mother, and what did that mean? “All good things I hope?”

“Of course!”

And ok, somehow that was worse. What had Coulson been saying about him? To his _parents_?

“It’s um, it’s an honor to meet you too ma’am,” he mumbled, trying for sincere but coming out awkward.

“Oh pfft,” she smiled, waving a hand through the air. “Call me Ellie please, if you’re comfortable. Anything but ma’am. I’m not quite that old yet.” And then, before he could freak out about insulting her… “I hope you like blueberries!”

“Clint will eat anything you put in front of him mother,” Phil said calmly, forking up another short stack as Clint hesitantly took a seat beside him. “I told you that.”

“Oh hush,” Ellie scolded him before putting a plate and fork down in front of Clint, tossing him a cheeky wink. “What you _told_ me was that blueberry pancakes are his favorite and that I’d better make twice as many if I wanted to feed both of you.”

Clint felt the tips of his ears burn.

“You didn’t have to…”

“It’s no trouble,” Ellie smiled, going back to the stove. “I’m used to feeding a full house.”

“You should see his sisters,” Robert added distractedly, still intent on his paper. “If you think teenage boys can pack it away, you should see the disaster left after a teenage girl’s sleepover-breakfast.”

Clint raised a questioning eyebrow but Coulson just shook his head, looking mildly traumatized as he pushed the plate of pancakes towards him.

“Don’t ask.”

“Oh you two,” Ellie huffed with feigned exasperation. “It was one time! The bacon’s just about done – would you like some eggs Clint?”

“No thanks,” he declined, pouring syrup liberally over a massive plate of pancakes. What, he was hungry ok? He’d been on missions’ rations for what felt like a month. “But um, coffee?”

Ellie didn’t answer, just watched him over her shoulder with a smile, her eyes sparkling, and when Clint followed her gaze he found Coulson pushing a mug toward him silently, hot and black and, mmm, three sugars just like he liked it.

“Thanks boss,” he grinned, slurping down half the mug in one go.

Phil just hummed and went back to his breakfast, silently accepting the sports section of the paper from his father. For a while things were quiet, but a comfortable kind of quiet that slowly worked against the awkwardness of being dropped into the middle of a family unit that worked seamlessly around him. As Clint devoured stack after stack of truly superb blueberry pancakes he watched the three Coulsons unobtrusively as Phil and his father quietly discussed the abysmal prospects of a local football team, trading pages of news back and forth between them at a matched, leisurely pace and Ellie Coulson bustled back and forth between counter and island, distributing plate after plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, topping off glasses of fresh orange juice and mugs of hot coffee.

It might’ve been uncomfortable, being waited on that way. There was something motherly and doting about it and that was definitely something that he didn’t have a lot of experience with. It helped that Ellie was feeding her son and husband at the same time, sipping at a mug of fragrant tea and nibbling here and there as she finished up the last of the pancake batter. It took some of the pressure off of him, some of the imagined scrutiny - and the fact that being so simply and easily integrated into the group was more jarring than anything else for him was pretty pathetic, so he ignored it and focused on filling his belly instead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good, hot meal, and after two or three bites he found himself with a ravenous appetite. At that point he gave up on overthinking the thing and devoted himself whole-heartedly to the spread in front of him.

By the time he was done he wasn’t sure he could roll himself off his chair.

“Wow,” he breathed, leaning back and dropping his hands to his belly. “I feel… _so_ much better. That was fantastic - thanks Mrs. C!”

“Oh, you’re very welcome sweetie,” she smiled, carrying the empty pancake platter to the sink. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Maybe too much,” Clint laughed, patting his belly. “I’m stuffed!”

“Good,” Coulson nodded, finishing the last of his coffee and getting to his feet. “You know how I feel about you living off of those snack bars you inexplicably like so much.”

“Meal replacement protein bar,” Clint countered, rehearsed lines from an old argument. “And they taste way better than those blocks that come in our missions rations.”

“That’s because they’re meant for blonde, beach moms hoping to lose weight to combat the fact that they’re entering their mid-forties,” Phil scoffed, before turning to drag his gaze long and slow over Clint’s body and making heat flare in his cheeks. “You’re… not.”

“Right,” Clint mumbled, awkward and abruptly nervous, because that was weird right? That was… “Um… hey, can I help with the dishes Mrs. C?”

“Oh that’s all right, thank you Clint,” she replied, but something about her face reminded him of Natasha when she was trying not to laugh.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m just going to stack them all up and let the machine do the work.”

“I want to check your stitches anyway,” Coulson said. “Come on - I’ll show you the bathroom and you can shower.”

“But that means getting up,” Clint grumbled, rubbing his stomach and slouching in his seat. “Carry me!”

“On your feet Agent,” Phil encouraged. “Or I’ll roll you out into the backyard and hose you off.”

He would too. He’d done it before. Dragging himself to his feet, Clint groaned with the effort, felt the sharp, stinging pull of the stitches in his side, his too-full belly, but nothing sounded better than a nice hot shower and a nap, so he marshalled his energy and followed after his boss.


	5. Chapter 5

Humming as he rinsed shampoo from his hair, Clint hung his head and let the shower rain down on his back and shoulders. If the pancake breakfast had been amazing then the Coulson’s water pressure was phenomenal, and the hot water was working miracles on the knots in his muscles. After Phil had shown him the bathroom he’d been quick to strip off and jump in, scrubbing down and letting the water loosen the edges of the tape on his side before carefully peeling it off. The cut was a little red and swollen underneath but nothing too bad, and despite the sting Clint couldn’t bring himself to get back out again.

Sagging against the wall of the shower, he closed his eyes and breathed in the steam, let the heat soak in deep as the water rushed over him. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time - full and clean and warm, nearly completely relaxed. Hell if he didn’t know Coulson was out there waiting for him he might fall asleep right where he was, standing up and at risk of downing. As it was he could practically feel the man on the other side of the door and that was the only thing that got him out of the water at all. Thinking about the Coulson’s eyes on him, the pale memory of warm, confident, calloused hands curling around his side and holding his hips to the bed…

If he’d stayed any longer he might’ve had a… _situation_ to deal with, and no way was that happening in Mama Coulson’s house.

And ok, now he was completely squicked out.

Cranking off the water, Clint dried himself down and pulled on a pair of sweats he’d grabbed, looping his towel around his neck for a little bit of modesty in case he ran into the lady herself in his dash across the hallway. Luckily the coast was clear, at least until he made it to the bedroom and found Coulson leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’d changed out of his own sweats - standard Coulson sleepwear - and into a pair of dark wash jeans, jeans Clint was one hundred percent sure he’d never seen him wear, because dear god, that was a sight he would’ve remembered. He was wearing a long-sleeved Rangers tee too, the decal faded and the fabric just a little too tight across the chest, frayed at the hem and suggesting a life of long-wear and careful laundering. They made him look years younger and Clint felt his stomach jump as a flush of heat went spilling across his cheeks and down over his chest.

This thing he had for his handler was going to kill him one day.

Catching himself giving the man a lingering once-over, Clint blinked and cleared his throat, turned half away as he dragged the towel up over his head and scrubbed at his hair.

Jeez, Barton, obvious much?

At least he hadn’t purred - he sure _felt_ like doing it.

“All right?”

“Huh?” Clint mumbled distractedly, nearly committed to hiding underneath his towel in embarrassment for the rest of his life. “Yeah, ‘course. Fine. Why?”

Surfacing just in time to catch Coulson’s frown, to see his eyes drop, Clint’s brain caught up with him and he raised his arms, hissing under his breath when he twisted to quickly and pulled the stitches he’d hurried to show off.

“Easy,” the man scolded, his voice low and smooth and calm. Putting a hand on Clint’s elbow, he dragged him gently toward the bed and pushed him down. “Tear those and you’re on your own - I’m not putting them in twice.”

“Aw, but sir,” Clint whined dramatically, mostly to distract himself from Coulson’s hand on his bare chest, urging him down to lie flat on his back. “You wouldn’t leave me like that would you?”

Phil hummed non-committally but there was a laugh showing at the corners of his eyes, and he ignored the question in favor of leaning in to examine the long furrow in Clint’s side. A wave of calm washed over him having found himself the sole target of his handler’s attention, and his limbs went heavy as he settled onto the mattress. The sleepiness from the shower came flooding back, deadening the crackling heat of arousal that had started in the pit of his belly, replacing it with an easy sort of comfort that was all safety and familiarity and _Coulson_.

“It’s a little pink,” the man muttered, more to himself than anything, a sudden frown tightening his mouth as his gaze travelled slowly up Clint’s chest to his face. “All of you’s a little pink.”

Clint gulped, felt himself blush again and wasn’t that just perfect, because it only served to deepen the flush across his cheekbones, spreading down his throat and over his collarbones. Coulson’s frown hardened, that worried little wrinkle forming between his eyes, and his hand came up to press against his forehead, gauging the heat of his skin.

“You’re warm too. Are you feeling feverish at all?”

“Was just the shower,” Clint mumbled, reaching up to rub the back of his neck shyly and hiding his face in the curve of his bicep.

Coulson was quiet a minute but Clint couldn’t convince himself to meet the man’s gaze.

“All right then,” he said finally, and Clint felt the bed roll beneath him as he reached for the med kit that had migrated back to the bedside table. “We’ve got some topical antibiotics and we’ll keep it covered for now. You’re up to date on your tetanus right?”

“Yessir,” Clint mumbled, but the massive yawn that stretched his jaw made the reply almost unintelligible.

Phil chuckled under his breath, started smoothing a thick layer of antiseptic cream along the laceration and taping clean gauze over top of it.

“Tired Agent?” he asked, and Clint nodded, blinking sleepily.

Slapping his hand down firmly on the center of his chest, a silent command to stay put, Coulson pushed to his feet, his weight oddly comforting in the brief moment that it held Clint down.

“Take a nap,” he suggested, wiping his hands on Clint’s damp towel and zipping up the med kit. “We don’t have anywhere to be - at least not until I get ahold of Fury - and I don’t plan on calling him until tomorrow morning.”

“That’s kinda sneaky sir,” Clint hummed, closing his eyes and wiggling deeper into the pillow. Half a second later he felt a blanket being draped lightly over his chest, the ghost of a hand sweeping over his hair, but that wasn’t right was it? He must be heading into dreamland already, his head starting to go warm and muzzy and quiet.

“Maybe,” Coulson said quietly somewhere beside him, “But you need the sleep, so I think I’ll risk it.”

Clint felt his mouth curve in a smile but his eyelids were too heavy to lift, and anyway, he could hear Coulson retreating across the room, the soft creak of the door as he pulled it halfway shut. Quiet fell, a light, simple sort of quiet that Clint wasn’t used to, a kind of calm that didn’t come with a storm attached. He drifted in it like walking through a fog, halfway awake and halfway gone, breathing in measured counts, and for a while it was nice, easy. Sleep should have come next, quick and smooth, his body heavy and just a little achy, but the longer he lingered in that place the more frustrated he got.

“Damn it,” he hissed under his breath, kicking off the quilt. “Not fair!”

He was clean, well-fed, cozied up in a nice soft bed, everything a good puppy could wish for, so why the hell couldn’t he sleep?

Sighing, he tipped his head back, scrubbed his hands over his face.

Because Clint wasn’t a puppy, that was why.

He was a god-damned guard dog, and he wasn’t exhausted or half bled-out like he’d been last night. The anxiety, the wariness of being in a new place, a safe house that was still unsecured by Clint’s standards was starting to come in, making him hyper-alert and more and more nervous without his hearing, his bow. His hands slid slowly up his sides, his fingers drumming twitchily against his belly before he gave it up, blowing out a breath in exasperation and rolling upright, the new tape tight over his ribs. Ignoring the hearing aids he’d removed before his shower, he tugged his t-shirt back on and shuffled toward the hallway.

**AVAVA**

Phil Coulson thought of vacation the way he thought of decaf coffee. It existed, it was probably better for him than his normal day-to-day, but the mere thought of it was both depressing and frustrating in a single go. Though he rarely experienced it, he held it in a certain estimation, considered it with no small amount of dismissal. To him, a vacation was a waste of time, days spent loitering around in his apartment alone, thinking about work and waiting to go back. It wasn’t something he abhorred, at least not as much as he hated decaf coffee, but it wasn’t exactly something he looked forward to either.

This?

This might kill him.

To be fair it wasn’t exactly a vacation, not even an impromptu one. It was a holdover, a place-saver - something they’d gotten stuck in dozens of times before - on trains or in hotels, crumbling safe houses or opulent hotels booked under false names. They’d gotten waylaid between missions, forced to wait for pick-ups, even buried in an old root cellar on one memorable occasion and forced to wait out the digging process. It was downtime, as close to a vacation as Phil ever got, but this was different still, and quite possibly worse than all the rest.

Not to be misunderstood - he loved coming to visit his parents, loved the chance to sleep in his childhood bedroom and indulge in old hobbies, old habits - but he never dreamed he’d be here with Clint Barton. When the archer had come shuffling out of the bedroom that morning, blonde hair a fluffy mess, expression soft with sleep, he had been flooded with an odd crush of emotions he’d been unable to sort at all, and he’d only just been able to bluff his way through by stuffing his mouth with too many pancakes and very nearly siccing his mother on the younger man. Clint had been shy, polite and sweet to his father and mother in turns, but Phil had seen the discomfort, the nervousness and uncertainty in the way the normally brash and cocky archer held his shoulders. He knew Clint’s history, the type of homes he’d come from - if they could even be called that - and he could only imagine what it must be like for him to try to navigate the Coulson household.

It had sent a surge of protectiveness through him, even more so than he already felt for his specialist, and he’d watched carefully as Clint finally got his fill of a good, hearty, home-cooked meal after far too long without, surreptitiously positioning plates of pancakes and eggs well within his reach and doing his best to ignore the pointed silence coming from his father and the suspicious looks and teasing smiles coming from his mother. Afterward he’d ushered Clint into the shower, slipped away to his room to change in order to distract himself from the sudden, fleeting thought of too much bare skin. He knew he had an interest in Clint that was more than professional, had had for a long time, but he’d never had a problem setting it aside, putting it away in a neat little box so that he could be the lifeline the man needed in the field.

Having him here in his home with his parents… it was throwing him off.

It was the reason he’d dug to the bottom of his dresser drawer, through the meager supply of spare clothes he still kept in his parents’ house for the old Army shirt he hadn’t been able to part with. The Rangers decal was flaking off and it was a full size too small now, a relic from his younger days when he’d still be lanky and thin, not muscled and compact like he was now, not so in control of his reflexes. Faded and worn, it was still comfortable, soft with wash and wear, and it still managed to put a little bit of confidence back in his chest, a little bit of pride.

Apparently it also showed off his good side, if the way Clint’s eyes caught on him were any judge. Not that Phil noticed him staring right away - he was doing too much of that himself at first. Shirtless and with his sweats riding a little too low on his hips for Phil’s sanity, Clint was a display of hard muscle and toned, tanned skin, hair damp and drops of water trailing slowly down his neck. He’d swallowed and felt his ears burn with a blush at the way he’d been ogling, and he’d been thrown when he finally dragged his eyes up to find Clint’s lingering on his biceps, the stretch of fabric across his chest. 

It didn’t mean anything. Not what he wanted it to anyway. It was just surprise, might’ve even been a little bit of discomfort if Clint’s shyness meant anything. They’d seen each other in varying states of undress over the years, various shades of blood red, but it was always bits and pieces of suits being shed, three-piece or tactical. Phil didn’t do casual, not at SHIELD, and he was quite certain Clint had never seen him in a pair of jeans before. There was money riding on whether or not he owned anything other than Brooks Brothers or Hugo Boss.

Not that Phil was supposed to know that.

Not that he and Fury had a 50-50 deal going that involved Phil getting half of the Director’s winnings in exchange for stacking the deck…

Well, it didn’t matter.

He’d needed to clean Clint’s stitches and check in on his physical well-being, concern spiking when the man appeared just a little too pink and warm and clammy. There was always a concern for fever, shock, or infection with wounds like the one Clint had suffered, but he’d shrugged off Phil’s concern and seemed coherent enough, if a little tired. He had gone soft and pliant on the bed, the way he sometimes did when he let his guard down, sleepy and full of cuddles, and Phil had had to make a quick escape before caving in to the urge to settle down beside him. History promised that if he did Clint would curl up beside him and snuggle in for a nap, and Phil wasn’t sure he could take advantage like that, not when he was fighting the thoughts and emotions he was fighting.

Still, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from brushing Clint’s hair off his forehead, looking back one last time as he ducked out the door. Escape made, he’d gone to find his mother for a quiet discussion, but she’d already bustled his father off to his part-time job and was grabbing her purse for some errands of her own. Pressing a kiss to his cheek she’d promised to be back within the hour and disappeared out the front door, leaving him in the silence of a nearly empty house.

It was funny how well he still knew it, even after all these years. He knew which steps down to the basement creaked and which cabinet his father stashed his good bourbon inside, knew which photo albums would be strategically placed at Christmas time and where the spare key to the back door was hidden. He knew that he would always be welcome back here, and that there would always be a sense of safety associated with stepping inside again. It was old familiarity, old comfort, and it was always calming, always soothing.

This time was different.

Pacing over to the bookshelves his father had built when he was a teenager, the ones that lined the back wall of the living room, Phil tapped his fingers along the cracked and dog-eared volumes until he found an old favorite, a fictionalized biography of a United States general who’d commanded submarines in World War II. He’d picked it up the last time he’d come to visit, months and months ago though he’d only managed to stay for two days before Fury had summoned him back. It was settling to find the bookmark he’d left behind still in place, even more so to sink into the corner of the overstuffed couch and kick his feet up on the coffee table.

Phil had never been one to relax easily - just another reason he avoided those pesky, mandatory vacation hours - but he did try, and a good book had always been his surest bet. A few pages in and his mind had quieted somewhat, his focus falling into the words and away from the quiet, empty house, the archer sleeping down the hallway. He didn’t realize he was unconsciously keeping track of the time, counting the minutes as they passed until Clint came shuffling quietly into the living room, stumbling around with bleary eyes and looking for all the world like he was lost.

Spotting Phil on the sofa he drifted to a stop in the middle of the living room floor, blonde hair dried fluffy on one side and flat on the other.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, closing the book on his finger. 

Clint frowned, narrowed his eyes, and this time Phil set the book in his lap, signing the question fluently to save him the effort of trying to lip read. As soon as his fingers formed the final gesture Clint shrugged, looked off to the side but not before he caught the slightly miserable expression on his face. A smile threatened at the corners of his mouth - that pout was about as lethal as Natasha - and it was one he only ever saw when Clint came to him wet and hungry and tired and hurt, when he collapsed beside him after a mission gone FUBAR on the bench of one of the quinjets, or when Phil had to escort him bleeding and broken and trembling down to the med bay. As much as it conveyed pain or exhaustion or fear, to Phil it also meant trust, and that was the more important part.

“Come on Barton,” he said, keeping his face turned to Clint and signing with one hand as he grabbed his book and brushed by the archer. “I’ll sit driver’s seat.”

It was code, a positions assignment for Strike Team Delta. When you took driver’s seat you took watch - guarded the perimeter, scouted ahead, or sat up while the others slept. Like anything else with Clint it had taken months to earn that much trust, and watching him go from panicky insomnia spent spinning knives and arrows between his fingers to a deep, restful sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow was quite possibly the achievement he was most proud of in all his time at SHEILD.

Clint’s hesitation now prickled more than it probably should.

Looking back over his shoulder Phil raised an eyebrow, surprised when Clint blushed and looked down, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to…” he blurted out, trailing off like he hadn’t meant to start and couldn’t figure out how to finish.

His stomach went a little cold thinking about why the younger man might’ve suddenly gone skittish and coy on him again, so he did the only thing he could think to do - put on his Agent Coulson mask, shot Clint a chastising look, and headed for the bedroom. Taking control, being the voice Clint relied on to point him in the right direction might be taking advantage of their working relationship, the style they were both accustomed to, but at the moment he couldn’t care. Leading the way back into the bedroom, he pulled the sheets up and rearranged the pillows, standing back and waiting pointedly until Clint slunk onto the mattress, lying half on his stomach and half on his side. By the time Phil got himself settled back against the headboard with his book in his lap, Clint had curled his arms up around his pillow, hugging it close and turning instinctively toward him.

Three minutes later Clint’s eyes were still open and Phil was still staring at the same sentence he’d finished back in the living room.

“We’ve done this before,” he said quietly, curiosity and concern finally getting the better of him as one hand formed the signs. “What’s wrong?”

“Dunno,” Clint breathed, staring straight ahead at Phil’s knee. “I guess I just… feel good.”

Phil blinked.

Of all the things he’d feared might be haunting Clint, that wasn’t even on the list. That wasn’t their modus operandi, wasn’t their thing. They worked around the assumption of illness and injury, like they had last night. Clint had been hurt, yes, but not so much that Phil had stayed with him, and still he’d slept. A part of it was the drag, the wear-down that came with months of back-to-back missions - Phil knew that - but he wondered if this being his parents’ house, _his_ house, hadn’t helped. It made him unsure which was the anomaly - the trust from the night before or this new thing.

“It’s different you know?” Clint said quietly. “We’ve done this but we haven’t done _this_.”

“Speak for yourself agent,” Phil teased flatly, preoccupied with deeper, more tangled musings. “I make it a point to eat, sleep, and bathe on a regular basis.”

Beside him Clint huffed a laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he burrowed deeper into his pillow.

“You sir?” he murmured. “I thought you just powered down under Fury’s desk every night.”

“Yes, and I trust that you and Natasha are taking full advantage of the betting pool.”

“Course,” Clint mumbled beside him, his words getting lost as he finally started to slip into sleep. “But we only ever bet on you sir.”


	6. Chapter 6

Having gotten her husband out the door on his way to the library and feeling confident in the fact that her son and his agent had been well fed and were safe and comfortable in her home, Ellie Coulson was only half content to drive the ten minutes into town and potter through her list of Friday errands. She would have much rather stayed home, spied surreptitiously on the way Phillip moved around Clint Barton, but her husband had rolled his eyes at her affectionately before he'd left and she knew she wasn't being as subtle as she could be. She was perfectly capable of better of course, but it seemed a bit rude to test the poor young man while he was injured, and besides, she still didn't know just how complicated things were between the two. She didn't want to risk anything. 

Instead she made her way methodically up Main Street, leaving a donation for the canned food drive at Town Hall, picking up a roll of stamps at the post office, and stopping off at the grocery store for a few all-important staples necessary for the feeding and care of one Phillip J Coulson. He had always been rather closer to her than his father, quickly frustrated with Robert's distractability and easy-going nature, and he tended to trail her in the kitchen whenever he came home. As much as he cared for the tea and quiet conversations he lingered for the home-cooked meals, and he had a few favorites that she liked to treat him to when she could. Despite having fixed and served a triple-serving breakfast only a few hours ago, she had no doubt that a supper just as substantial could only go over well. 

Pushing her cart slowly down the aisles she hummed quietly to herself, a cheerful little tune she'd sung to her children when they were small. Occasionally a neighbor would wave or stop to trade a few words, but for the most part she was left with her thoughts as she picked up a small bag of potatoes, selected two onions from a pyramid. It was early spring, damp and a little chilly, and a hot, hearty dish should do well, something to stick a little meat on a weary secret agent's bones. She wasn't nearly as oblivious as her son liked to think her; she knew exactly how hard and harrowing his work was, and not only could she see his worry over his asset, she could feel her own as well. The young Agent Barton was bulky but trim, no doubt in peak condition, honed down entirely to bone and serviceable muscle, but there was a tightness around his eyes, something in the slope of his shoulders that suggested weariness. It didn't go so far as to suggest malnutrition, but hinted at a general lack of self-care that she already knew her son was guilty of. 

As a mother it pained her to see it, though perhaps she did feel a bit smug that Phillip was finally getting a taste of the worry he constantly plagued her with. 

Well, it was no use crying over spilled milk – better to start mopping it up. 

Heading up to the check out, Ellie unloaded her cart onto the belt and impulsively selected a pack of cards from the rack above the register. Perhaps after dinner the boys would indulge her and Robert in a game of canasta. At the very least it might distract from Clint's obvious discomfort and unsurety navigating his superior's home and family. It made sense, of course – as she understood it Phillip was his handler, his supervisor in the field – but she was sure there was more to it than that. He'd seemed so surprised that morning when she'd served him his favorite breakfast, so quietly fascinated by the way Phillip interacted so easily with his father, so sweetly grateful and eager to help afterward... He seemed rather dazzled by it all, astonished by something so simple, and it made her heart ache just a bit when she thought of the type of family, the type of home he'd come from that he could be so surprised. 

Poor thing. 

She would say he needed a mother to dote on him if she couldn't hear her husband laughing at her, reminding her that she felt the same way about everyone before pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

Well nevermind, perhaps she'd speak with Phillip about it in an effort to convince him to bring the man around more often. All the better if her son came attached – she missed him, and didn't get to see him nearly often enough. 

The drive back to the house was short and uneventful, and as she was unloading the groceries from the trunk she noticed Boris skulking beneath the rosebushes, his pale eyes following her intently. The transient tabby had splashes of white on his chest and belly, an extra toe on each front foot, and a remarkable knack for knowing when her son had come home. While Phillip had no particular love or aversion to pets, the finicky thing had taken to him without exception, and refused to enter the house when he wasn't there. Indeed Phillip was the only one who's touch the animal tolerated with equanimity. 

"Come on then, you," she called, pulling open the door and waiting patiently while the cat sidled across the grass towards her. "You know he's here, though how is anyone's guess." 

Glaring at her balefully, the cat flicked its tail and then with a burst of speed came sprinting up the walk into the garage, bounding up the steps and into the house as though she might change her mind and keep him out. 

Shaking her head, Ellie followed the cat inside, glad she'd thought to grab a few tins of wet food while she was at the market. Though she had no idea where the animal disappeared to whenever Phillip was away, she could very nearly set her watch by Boris while he was home. Surprised to find the living room empty and the house quiet as she placed her bags on the kitchen counter, she watched as the cat leapt onto the sofa, turned a quick circle, and then jumped back down again before trotting up the hallway on silent paws. 

More curious than concerned, Ellie followed, unsurprised when she saw Boris' crooked tail disappear into the guest room. The sight that greeted her nearly made her heart melt. 

Her son and his agent were both fast asleep, dead to the world and the dip in the mattress when the cat leapt lightly onto the bedspread. Phillip was nearly upright, slouched back against the headboard with a book lying forgotten on the night table, while Clint lay curled on his side next to him. The young man nearly had his head in her son's lap, her son, who's fingers were still, threaded through the archer's messy blonde hair. 

Circling Clint's feet, Boris arched his back, hair standing on end and tail fluffed like a bottle brush as he sniffed at the sleeping man's toes. Ellie moved to step forward, to snatch him off the bed before he lashed out with unsheathed claws, but before she managed it the cat hopped into the narrow space between the two men's bodies, curled up, and turned back to look at her with defiant feline laughter. 

Ellie narrowed her eyes – persnickety thing, she had his number! She almost laughed when Clint's armed came down around the cat and squeezed, cuddled him like a child with a teddy bear while the animal's eyes nearly bugged out of his head with something like sheer, abrupt regret. 

Shaking her head, she left the three of them to their nap and returned to the kitchen to begin putting the groceries away. Twenty minutes later she'd completed the task, fetched and filled Boris' bowls, and scrubbed the bag of potatoes clean. Standing at the counter, she turned down the volume on some old swing music and set to peeling the spuds. Halfway through the little mountain of vegetables, she heard a shuffling down the hall, heard the bathroom door open and close again. A few moments later Clint appeared, yawning widely and running a hand through his hair. 

"There's sweet tea in the fridge," she smiled, pointing with the peeler. "Help yourself." 

For minute he didn't move, twisting the hem of his t-shirt in his hands and blinking at her, shy and still half asleep, but when she kept casually to her work he seemed to relax a little, finding a glass in the cabinet she nodded him toward and pouring himself a drink from the pitched. Coming back to the counter he sat down on one of the breakfast stools, watched her finish up with the peelings and sweep them into a bin for composting in her husband's garden. 

"Anything I can do to help?" he asked, and Ellie smiled. 

Normally she wouldn't impose on a guest, but the young man seemed to need a purpose, to prove himself to be more than a burden. 

"You can rinse those," she allowed, amused when he immediately jumped to his feet and carried the bowl of potatoes to the sink. "Let me find you a cutting board and you can put those knife skills to good use." 

He startled a little at that, a potato slipping from his hands and thudding against the sink basin. 

"Um..." 

Smiling, she tossed him a saucy wink and put the board and the knife on the counter, went to the freezer for the spiral ham left over from Easter. 

"Sliced thin please," she directed, "About a quarter of an inch." 

"Scalloped potatoes right?" he asked as she turned back to the counter, bringing an armful of ingredients with her. 

"That's right!" she smiled. "I hope you don't mind – they're Phillip's favorite." 

Clint laughed, his shoulders shaking as he zipped through the knife work. 

"He hates that," he confided, surprising her. "Says he's never been able to find any as good as yours. As for me I'm not picky, but I'm looking forward to experiencing the real thing." 

"Well I hope it lives up to your expectations," she chuckled, trading Clint a couple of onions for the finished spuds. 

"What expectations?" 

Looking as rumpled as he ever did – that is to say hardly at all – Phillip came walking carefully into the kitchen, Boris balanced imperiously on his shoulder. Glancing over, Clint looked her son up and down, his eyes going wide and his shoulders high and tight as he bit down on his lower lip, a futile attempt to hold back a grin. 

He didn't quite manage to tamp down on a snicker though. 

"Not one word specialist," Phillip warned, claiming a stool beside the younger man and dragging the cat down from its perch. Giving Boris a quick scratch behind the ears, he leaned over to set him on the floor, and Ellie didn't miss how Clint's gaze flicked back toward him where his shirt had rucked up before skittering away again, the crests of his cheekbones going pink. 

"Your mom's making your favorite," he said, his voice just rough enough to make Phillip cock an eyebrow. "I was just telling her I looked forward to finally getting the chance to try it." 

"You better not have talked me up too much sweetheart," she smiled, crossing around behind him to press a kiss to his temple on her way to the fridge to return the milk. "What will your agent think of me if I serve him a bowl of potatoes not half as good as he's been promised?" 

"Impossible," he determined. "Besides, Barton's used to eating in the caf – anything's an improvement over that." 

"Yeah, but after all the servings of macaroni and glue and Tuesday's mystery meat special that I've processed I've got a gut like steel and total immunity from food poisoning," he boasted, finishing up the last of the onion. "Honestly, the first couple months I thought the lunch ladies were running some kind of training regimen on us, to prepare us for drinking third-world water." 

"A convenient side effect," her son replied dryly, and Ellie hid a smile, remembering her own Army days and the food she'd seen young men living on. "I'd be grateful I still had my tastebuds if I were you." 

"Eh, it's easier than cooking for one," he shrugged easily before turning on her with a sweet, mischievous sort of grin, batting a ridiculous set of eyelashes. "And besides, here I am, being served a home-cooked meal by a beautiful woman..." 

"Please don't flirt with my mother," Phillip said dryly, and to her great surprise, instead of quailing under the undisguised command Clint immediately turned a coquettish look on her son instead, but it didn't last for more than a second because just as he said it Robert stepped into the kitchen, home from his shift at the library. 

"Why shouldn't he?" He demanded, stepping around the island and sweeping her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Your mother's a lovely woman son – every man should appreciate that." 

Nearly toppling from his stool at her husband's sudden appearance, Clint went pale and wide-eyed, and it would have been comical, sweet if she didn't notice the way he immediately dropped the knife in his hand, tightened his fingers around the edge of the counter and averted his gaze, jaw tight as he swallowed nervously. 

"Sure," Phillip agreed, neither he nor his father noticing Clint's reaction, "But then I'd have to make them disappear, and the paperwork involved in disappearing someone is astronomical." 

Laughing, Robert let her go to finish mixing the ham and potatoes together in a ceramic baking dish, went to the refrigerator to pour himself some tea. 

"Tricked you into doing the dirty work already did they?" he teased, fetching a glass and crossing to the island to refill Clint's as well. He tensed almost imperceptibly but seemed to relax again when Robert chuckled and clapped him genially on the shoulder, proved just how easy he was by remaining entirely oblivious to the young man's distress. "Thought you secret spy types were supposed to be good." 

"Clint's one of the best we have," Phillip assured him, reaching over briefly to squeeze the nape of the blonde's neck, and she found herself quite pleased when the tension immediately bled out of the younger man, the tight edge of fear melting away. 

"Not as good as you boss," he deferred, catching her eye and flushing, sitting up out of her son's grasp. Leaning forward, he scraped his onions into the baking dish, hopping up to carry his knife and cutting board to the dishwasher. 

"Different skill sets," Phillip disagreed. "Can't judge the apples against the oranges." 

"Sorry, what fruit am I in this scenario?" 

That got a chuckle all around, erasing the tickle of anxiety Clint's unease had put in the pit of her belly. Pouring the gravy mix over the potatoes, Ellie put the lid on the dish and tucked it into the oven. 

"Yes, we've heard you're quite the shot Agent Barton," she smiled as she set the timer. "Phillip says you never miss." 

Once again Clint surprised her. From everything her son had ever said he was a young man entirely confident in his abilities if not in himself, cocky and proud of his perfect marksmanship. Now he blushed, his cheeks flaming as he ducked his head shyly, a smile only just touching the edges of his mouth. 

"I try not to ma'am." 

This time she couldn't bring herself to scold him for the title. 

" _Try_ ," Phillip scoffed. "I've been your handler for five years Barton - I've _never_ seen you miss." 

"Just weighting my own betting pool sir," he grinned. 

"Speaking of betting," she proposed, grabbing the pack of cards from the counter, "We've got an hour or two before dinner. Clint, how's your canasta game?" 

"Never played before," he admitted. "I know more about Tarot cards than playing cards." 

"You're a fast learner," Phillip reassured him, rising from his stool and heading into the dining room. "You'll pick it up." 

He did too. Partnered with her son, it only took a few rounds for the young agent to have the game down pat, and an hour passed pleasantly as Clint slowly began to relax a little more, opening up a bit about himself and joking more easily. Every once in a while Ellie got up to stir the potatoes or refill glasses, and at one point Clint turned the tables by teaching her and Robert the only game he knew by heart, a Midwest favorite called Euchre. It was perhaps the most enjoyable afternoon she'd spent in a long time, just sharing it with her son and his agent, for the moment everyone safe and content and cared for, but of course it couldn't last. 

As the four of them shuffled up the cards and moved toward the kitchen to eat, Phillip's phone beeped in his pocket, eliciting a frown when he read the message. 

"We've got a ride," he said, tapping at the screen. "ETA eight minutes." 

For a moment Clint looked like he wanted to whine with disappointment, to pout and complain, but the expression was gone almost before it came, his shoulders dropping as he straightened up and nodded, going from Clint to Agent Barton right before her eyes. 

"On it boss," he nodded. "Want me to round up the gear?" 

"Please. Apparently Fury needs us back yesterday – he sent Simms to return the van." 

"Better go change then sir." 

Without another word, Clint turned around and trotted off, heading for the hallway and the back bedrooms. In contrast to his snapping back into secret agent mode, Phillip seemed to deflate as soon as he was out of sight, his shoulders slumping and his face just the tiniest bit dejected. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, shoving his phone back into his pocket and rounding the table to press himself into her arms. 

"Don't be," she chided gently, hugging him close before passing him off to his father. 

"We're proud of you kiddo," Robert said gruffly. "Go, save the world. Your mom and me aren't going anywhere." 

Phillip opened his mouth to reply but seemed unable to find the words, nodding instead - almost to himself - and heading off the way his agent had gone. Squeezing her husband's forearm when he sighed, she offered him a reassuring smile and made her way to the kitchen to find her good Tupperware. By the time Clint had collected their belongings from the van and the bedrooms, Phillip had emerged redressed in a slate grey suit and she'd dished up two large portions of scalloped potatoes for the road. 

"Ride's here boss," Clint said, suddenly awkward and shifting on his feet as he cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll, uh... I'll just load up." 

Ah, so that was it – just giving his boss the chance to say goodbye to his parents in private. 

Well she wasn't going to let him get away with that. 

"Clint," she called, stopping him at the doorway of the kitchen, headed for the front door. Stepping forward, she pressed a container into his hands and reached up to drop a quick kiss on his cheek. "It was wonderful to finally meet you," she said, smiling when he pinked up again, dropped his head shyly. 

"Thank you, for putting me up Mrs. C," he stumbled, tossing Robert a serious nod. "Sir." 

"No trouble at all agent," he replied, reaching forward to extend a firm but casual handshake. 

"We were happy to have you," she added. "And will be again, if you're ever in the area. You're always welcome." 

Blinking, the young man stared at her like he'd never been welcomed anywhere before, and poor thing, maybe he hadn't. Obviously surprised, unsure, maybe even a little frightened, it was his turn to be speechless. Swallowing, he licked his lips, nodded, and then practically fled the house, the window over the sink providing a clear view of him bounding down the front walk and closing himself up inside a blacked-out SUV. 

Phillip watched him go in silence, shook his head with a fond sort of exasperation. 

"Mom," he said, offering her one more hug and hanging on before taking the last of the Tupperware and extending his hand to his father. "Dad. It was good to see you." 

"Try not to be too much of a stranger son," Robert said, half a wry grin already forgiving the inevitable transgression. 

"Be safe sweetheart." 

It was the traditional farewell between them, one or the other making it both a plea and a promise. Nodding one last time, Phillip turned and left, closing the front door behind him without a backward glance, and just as they always did, she and Robert stood at the sink, watching out the window until the SUV disappeared down the street.

**AVAVA**

An hour's silent ride later, with Coulson once again behind the wheel, Clint slouched low in the passenger seat and turned to stare intently out the window.

"Your mom," he hazarded softly, his tone quiet and careful, "She's real nice." 

A beat of silence passed and he wondered if he'd messed up, if he was supposed to pretend it hadn't happened, to forget that he'd gotten a look at the human side of his handler, but then the man was answering back just as quiet and careful, and it was ok. 

"Yes. She is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review me please!!


	7. Mandatory Leave -->

By all rights things should have changed after that. Maybe he had always been a little more relaxed with Strike Team Delta, with Clint, but he was still Agent Coulson, Level 7 handler and Senior SHIELD Operative, suspected android and stone-cold ice man. Now Clint had seen beyond that, gotten a glimpse behind the proverbial curtain and yet nothing seemed to have changed at all. 

Christ, he'd met Phil's mother. Eaten at his dining table, slept across the hall from his childhood bedroom, seen Phil in blue jeans for heaven's sake and yet as soon as they had pulled up in front of headquarters it was business as usual, nothing out of the ordinary whatever. He called Phil 'boss' and 'sir' and 'Coulson,' dropped a messy after-action report on his desk, then grabbed his gear to head out on the next mission without saying anything more than he had in the SUV on the way back to New York. 

Phil wasn't trying too hard to figure out why that had disappointed him somehow. 

It should have been easy to forget those two days at his parents' house, not even forty-eight hours all together. He'd barely had time to corral Barton through medical to check his stitches before they picked up Natasha and hopped a quinjet for Cairo. What had been given a cover as a simple acquisitions mission was naturally much more than that – hence Nick's urgency in getting them back to New York – but then, when was anything ever simple where gods and aliens got involved? Two weeks into the detail and they'd already lived through three shoot-outs and a deadly, high-speed car chase. Another four weeks after that and Phil still found himself thinking about it every once in while, whenever things went quiet and the three of them found themselves stuck in the mind-numbing boredom of downtime in between gun fights and enemy infiltration. 

It wasn't Clint's fault. 

A big part of it was just Phil wanting to go back home at first, to spend some more time with his parents, but it was always like that. Give him a couple hours with his mom, in the neighborhood where he grew up and he didn't want to leave again. A strange phenomenon, given who he was and what he did, but it happened every single time without fail, and when Phil started to get tired, when SHIELD started pushing him just a little too hard, it was always worse. 

Homesickness. 

Seemed a little silly. 

It never affected his work - Phil was a master of compartmentalization after all - but by the time he, Clint, and Natasha got back from their mission gone FUBAR he was feeling run down and exhausted. 

Nothing like Clint must be though, and that was enough for him to lock it down, not to show it. 

He'd never had the chance to talk to Fury about Clint's back to back missions. Now on the fifth, with very little down time in between, the sniper was hitting the outer limits of even _his_ endurance, and it was showing on his face. Sitting across from Phil on the seat of the Quinjet, he was pale and shaky, his eyes nearly blackened with lack of sleep and his broad shoulders slumped with painful fatigue. 

Phil and Natasha were only in the beginning stages of the crash - Clint was hitting rock bottom. 

Pressing a meal bar into the agent's hand, Phil was heartened when Clint looked down blankly at the wrapper then huffed a little chuckle, no doubt remembering their teasing conversation back in Colorado. Natasha quirked an eyebrow, then caught his eye and nodded minutely in approval, capping the Gatorade the three of them had been passing back and forth before slouching low on the bench, leaning back, and closing her eyes. It still amazed him sometimes – the trust she had in him when it came to Clint – but he didn't intend to let it go to waste. He spent the rest of their flight back to New York making sure the man stayed hydrated and kept his sugar level, waking him up every hour or so to force a few more bites of power bar down his throat, a few more gulps of sports drink. 

Ten minutes from touchdown, his phone chimed with a message from Fury. 

"We're all on mandatory leave as of now," he said, his own relief as palpable as either of his two assets' even though they were both still half asleep, sitting up slowly, stretching and blinking wearily. "Grab a shower, then head down to the cafeteria. I'll meet you both there and we'll get the last of the after-action reports cleared and out of the way." 

"Been summoned to the inner sanctum boss?" Clint asked, his voice thick and warm and rumbly, and Phil felt himself stall, abruptly overwhelmed by the memory of reading in his mother's guest room, the archer curled up beside him sound asleep with Phil's hand carding slowly through his hair. He must really need his head checked if he were letting those kinds of thought slip through, though to be fair, he _had_ taken a pretty good roundhouse kick to the back of the skull about a week ago. 

"The Director asked me to meet him before our debrief, yes," he nodded, shaking off the sensation. "You were both cleared by medical on extraction – any change?" 

Here he looked pointedly at the two black eyes Natasha wasn't bothering to hide with makeup, the soft cast that the EMT's had strapped Clint's left ankle into. The walking boot encased his leg from toes to mid-calf and braced the sprain he'd gotten leaping off a roof in pursuit of the man who'd broken Natasha's nose. 

Clint shook his head in answer and Phil took it at face value – more so because the EMT's had reassured him than because Clint had. The archer had a bad habit of downplaying his injuries, of avoiding the med bay at all costs, but it was only a grade one sprain, cleared up within five to ten days as long as he wore the boot, kept it iced and elevated and let it rest. 

Just another reason to stop in at Fury's office. 

"All right," he nodded. "Shower, then caf. I'll get you through the debrief as quickly as I can and then you can crash – you both deserve some sleep." 

As the jet made a bumpy touchdown the three weary agents rose and gathered their things, slung the straps of jump-kits and go-bags over exhausted, aching shoulders. Clint leaned heavily into Natasha's side as they made their way down the ramp of the jet and into the hangar, visibly limping as they crossed the floor and caught an elevator. It felt wrong to let them go – it always did after such a long mission – but Phil maintained his composure when the doors slid open on the twelfth floor, disembarking for his office while his two agents stayed behind, continued on to the lower levels where they both kept small, private rooms in the dorms. 

Felt wrong. 

It was _his_ mission, they were _his_ assets, _his_. responsibility. 

He knew his instincts when it came to those two were more involved, more _intimate_ than was strictly professional, what with the nearly overwhelming need to see them both showered, fed, and tucked into their bunks for a good, long sleep, but he'd given up on fighting them a long time ago. 

He took care of his assets, that was all. 

They certainly wouldn't do it themselves. 

So he ordered them to clean up, to meet him where he could make sure that they got a bellyful of something better than safehouse-dinner; meals scraped together with whatever was available, often cooked in one big pot and made edible by mass quantities of hot sauce or peanut butter. 

It would have to be enough. 

Slipping into his office, Phil only stayed long enough to shuck his suit jacket and his tie, switch out his stale contacts for his back-up glasses, and grab a folder full of blank after-action reports before heading for Fury's. He bypassed the secretary without so much as a glance, too tired to play out their usual nod and shuffle, and entered the massive presidential office just in time to hear his boss bid someone goodbye in a low, soft, _fond_ tone that he only ever used with one person. 

"Do I want to know why you were just on the phone with my mother at two in the morning?" he asked, approaching the desk and dropping into one of the guest chairs like his strings had been cut. 

The director cocked an eyebrow, delicately replaced the receiver of his old-fashioned rotary phone. 

"I doubt it," he rumbled, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest as he looked Phil up and down. "You look like shit." 

Phil scoffed - Fury knew as well as he did exactly what kind of an op he was coming off. 

"Meant to talk to you about that by the way," he said, too exhausted to be suspicious of the convenient segue. "We need to crack down on overtime. We have agents clocking hours that far exceed safety regulations, running too many missions back to back without time to recuperate in between." 

Fury snorted. 

"And by agents you mean Barton," he corrected with a roll of his eye, ducking away from Phil's glare in order to fish something out of his desk drawer. "Here," he barked, tossing a pair of envelopes across the desk. "Figured if I footed the bill for the tickets you couldn't refuse." 

"Tickets?" Phil asked, his brain stumbling with confusion as he peered inside the envelopes. "Are you... are you _forcing_ me to take a vacation?" 

"That's exactly what I'm doing," Fury boomed, suddenly more himself as the heavy command came back into his voice. "I know you Cheese; I put you on a week's recuperative down time and you'll be back in the office in two days, so this time you'll go to Oregon and you'll stay out of your damned email and if I have to pay a babysitter to make sure you actually take some time off then so be it." 

Phil blinked, stared at his boss, his friend with something like half-amused, dumbfounded shock. 

"You paid my mother to monitor my work output." 

"Desperate times Coulson," the man defended, waving him off. "We've got a serious op coming up and I need you at a hundred and ten percent to get it off the ground." 

Fair. 

That much at least was true. 

But... 

Phil frowned, narrowed his eyes. 

"There are _two_ tickets here." 

"Damn right there are, you think I'm an idiot?" Fury demanded. "Romanoff's smart – she'll actually use leave to recuperate, but Barton's a dumbass. He'll get antsy and cut himself out of that cast as quick as you'd be back in your office, and I need him too." 

"Sir..." 

"Your flight leaves at six," he interrupted, riding right over the protests and the panic suddenly rising up in Phil's chest. "You'll both have time to pack a bag and make it to the airport." 

"With all due respect sir," he argued, following Fury to his feet. "Barton has been on five missions without sufficient leave, he..." 

"Needs a break just as much as you do, and a babysitter even more!" Fury declared, marching out of the office and into the elevators with Phil hot on his heels. "Which is why I called your mother. You forced my hand Coulson - she's willing to pick you up at the airport and promised not to let either of you so much as _think_ about paperwork until she ships you back here." 

"She..." 

Fury arched his eyebrow when Phil trailed off, shook his head, surprised and yet not surprised at all by this turn of events. He was used to Fury and his mother taking control of his life every so often – he was the type of person that needed to be saved from himself once in a while. His mom and his best friend were the type of people to do the saving. This wasn't the first time it had happened and it wouldn't be the last. It was really no different than any of the times before. 

Well, no different except for... 

"Barton!" Fury boomed as he stormed into the cafeteria, making the archer startle to his feet from his position slumped over a heaping plateful of macaroni and cheese. 

"Sir?" Clint managed, approximating parade rest as he wobbled blearily on uneven feet. 

His hair was damp and he'd changed into a pair of SHIELD-issue sweats and a t-shirt that was far too tight across his chest, but at least he still had the boot on. 

"You're on official leave," Fury declared, and Clint's brows drew together as he flicked a glance in Phil's direction, his attention caught by the strange repetition of information. 

"And because I can't trust either of you as far as I can throw you," Fury continued, splitting a one-eyed glare between them, "You're both going to Oregon. You'll stay there, you won't do a damned thing but heal up for your next mission, and Barton, you'll be on your best god-damned behavior and treat Eloise Coulson with all the respect she deserves and more or I'll personally have your hide, you understand me?" 

"Yes sir." 

"Damn right. Your flight leaves in four hours – get your damned reports filed and get the hell out of my building." 

Turning on his heel, Fury stalked off, his coat swirling as he muttered about babysitters and – oddly enough - cheesecake. 

For a moment the two of them stood beside each other, silent, staring, still shell-shocked by what had just happened, and then Clint was shrugging shyly and sitting back down, leaning his chin on his fist and poking at the tray of steaming, sticky orange noodles in front of him. 

"Want some?" he asked, and Phil, recognizing the gambit for what it was, sat down across from him, pulling the tray toward his chest. 

"Seconds or thirds?" he asked, tearing open several paper packets of black pepper and sprinkling the macaroni liberally. 

"Thirds," Clint replied, leaning back and patting his stomach. "Couldn't fit it. So. Fury's sending you back to your mom's?" 

"He's sending _us_ ," Phil corrected, suddenly wishing Natasha was at the table with them. Where Clint was ruthlessly efficient, more interested in warm food and a warm bed, Natasha tended to linger in the her bunk or the locker rooms, more intent on the hot water. It was one of the few blatant concessions she made to her femininity, and it wasn't surprising that she hadn't yet appeared. 

"Is this ok?" Clint asked suddenly, and Phil looked up from his tray to find clear, blue eyes staring back at him. 

Clint's cheeks turned pink and he dropped his gaze, picked at his thumbnail. 

"I mean, I don't have to come with you," he explained in a rush. "I can... be good." 

Clint paused and Phil felt his throat tighten, his mouth go dry at _that_ thought, at Clint being good. But then, he did that all the time for Phil didn't he? Followed orders when it mattered, bantered and teased but never disrespected, made every shot Phil asked him to take and then waited patiently for his praise. 

"You don't have to cancel on you parents or anything," he continued. "I wouldn't ask you to... It's just I can stay out of trouble. Here. It's fine." 

"It _is_ fine," Phil said, finally joining the conversation. "My mother meant it when she said she was happy to have you Clint. Fury already called her – apparently the two of them have come up with a whole system to make sure we actually use leave to regroup, get us back in shape for Op Blackfin on the seventeenth. Fury's threatened to sick a batch of new juniors on me if you and Natasha aren't ready to go for that one." 

Shrugging, he stuffed a sporkful of macaroni into his mouth. 

"Anyway, my mother'd have a conniption if she found out you were invited to stay with us and felt like you weren't welcome." 

"I just... don't want to intrude, you know? I mean it's your family..." 

_You're family too_. 

It almost slipped out. 

He didn't know where it came from, how long it had been building, but it hit him like a bat upside the head. Frozen in place with his fork halfway to his mouth, Phil stared at the man across from him with something like fear tickling at the pit of his belly. He had admitted to himself that he liked Clint but this was a hell of a lot more. He and Natasha _were_ family, but not... not _this_ kind of family, not like he'd just meant it. 

He... 

He didn't know what he meant. 

Christ, he needed sleep. 

"Bring your trunks," he said finally, taking a leaf out of Clint's book and deciding on avoidance. "My mother opens the pool the last week of May."

**AVAVA**

Clint was late.

After Natasha had joined them, Phil walked the two agents through their reports over dry pot roast, waffles, and numerous cups of coffee, the cafeteria slowly transitioning from late-night dinner to early-morning breakfast. Natasha seemed unsurprised that he and Clint were being shipped off for supervised vacation, though she hadn't been given all the details, only that they would be going together at Fury's command. Stating her intention of staying on base and in her bed for the duration of leave, she murmured something Russian in Clint's ear that made the archer blush and scowl before pressing a kiss to both their temples and disappearing in the direction of the physical therapy suite and the professional massage included in her agent's benefits package. 

Shuffling his paperwork together, Phil had managed to make things awkward as he handed over Clint's ticket, stuttered some kind of explanation about packing a bag, and made a hasty retreat to his office. There he had filed the reports, grabbed his briefcase, and called for a SHIELD car to drive him to his apartment, too tired to risk taking Lola home. She would have to suffer a week in the garage, under the protective cover Phil used any time she had to stay there more than a day. The trip was short and the junior agent he'd commandeered as driver mercifully silent, and it didn't take him more than half an hour to throw a bag together, set the timer on his fish-feeder, and water the windowsill full of plants. The half gallon of milk in the fridge got poured down the drain and the rest, well, the rest would keep. 

Now he was standing in the middle of the airport wearing worn jeans and a bomber jacket as the sun started to color the sky over the runway, watching his plane board and just beginning to panic because Clint was nowhere to be seen. 

Maybe he hadn't been clear enough, when he said that Clint was welcome to come along. He knew the man's history, how he'd been treated and how he thought, the things he still believed about himself. Maybe just telling him that Phil's mother really would be happy to have him back hadn’t been enough, maybe he should have reassured Clint that _he_ wouldn't mind having him back either. It didn't have to have anything to do with the whole Clint-is-family thing, or even the fact that he liked him more than he should. From the archer's perspective no doubt it looked like him imposing on his boss's time, intruding into his family life, getting in the way when Phil got precious few vacation days in the first place. 

It certainly didn't feel that way to Phil, but it must to Clint. 

Shit, he should've... 

Sighing, unsure what he _should've_ done, Phil checked his watch for the fifth time, only to look up to find Clint suddenly standing at his side, heavy-lidded, half asleep, and holding a frosted cinnamon roll the size of his head. 

"You can’t take that on the plane," he said, unsurprised that the man had gone in search of yet more food, even after packing away two agent-sized servings of macaroni and having nibbled at his and Natasha's trays throughout the debrief. 

"If you think I can’t finish this before we board, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did," Clint countered flatly. 

The bluntly honest statement made in an empty, emotionally-exhausted tone was enough to startle a bark of laughter out of Phil, and then Clint was handing him a chunk of the flaky pastry, bringing his hand to his mouth to suck thick, white icing from the edge of his thumb once Phil accepted. 

Tips of his ears warm, Phil stuffed the sugary bite into his mouth before something stupid and inappropriate came out of it – a whimper or a whine or god-forbid actual words. 

Christ he needed _sleep_ ; walking into all these little moments like brick walls... 

His only saving grace was that Clint didn't seem to notice. 

"Hate flyin’ coach with the puds," the archer mumbled vehemently, attempting to scowl at the sweet roll in his hand around cheeks stuffed to bulging. "Make me check my bow…" 

"You're on leave – you're not bringing your bow," he pointed out, bending down to pick up his carry-on bag and grabbing the agent by his sleeve, steering him toward the proper boarding lane. "Besides, we've talked about this. When we take a commercial flight you check your bow, keep the air marshalls happy." 

"Case comes out all scuffed up, getting' thrown around..." 

"Quit whining," Phil scolded without heat. It was a familiar argument but one he didn't mind having again – he'd always enjoyed the playful banter between Clint and himself, even from that very first op – and right now Clint was exhausted and uncomfortable and cranky, not unlike a small child. 

He could only hope that the sugar didn't make it worse. 

"Fury could've sprung for business at least, cheap bastard," the blonde muttered, popping the last bite of his cinnamon roll into his mouth and licking the tips of his fingers before grabbing the strap of the battered bookbag he'd slung over his shoulder. "Legs don't fit." 

"They will if I tase you and fold you up like origami." 

"They let you bring your taser on board?" Clint demanded, affecting a pout. 

"If you think I can’t get something as simple as a taser past customs," Phil said, tugging Clint close and lowering his voice as they slipped past the stewardess and into the collapsible hallway that led to the plane proper, "Then you don’t know _me_ as well as I thought you did." 

"Fair enough," Clint conceded, tucking himself in close to Phil's side and matching their strides even after he let go. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would you sir?"

"I will to get some peace and quiet," Phil vowed. 

"Hey, you do what you gotta do boss," he allowed, his eyes suddenly sparking with the flirtatious mischief Phil was used to seeing there. "You have no idea how flexible I still am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review me please!


	8. Chapter 8

Oh they looked terrible, poor things, the both of them. Even worse than last time. 

Stumbling off the plane with duffel bags slung over stooped shoulders, the two men were nearly asleep on their feet, only kept upright and moving by the surge of the crowd around them. Her Phillip was haggard and drawn, moving like someone fifteen years his senior, slowly and carefully like his joints ached, and beside him his agent, Clint Barton, looked all the worse for wear. He wasn't bleeding this time but that was really the only improvement. The man was pale beneath his tan, clearly exhausted, limping along with his lower leg strapped into a walking cast, hunched inside a hooded sweatshirt like he could forget the world around him. 

What a pair the two of them made. 

"Mom," Phillip said quietly, slipping in for a hug as soon as he got within arm's reach. 

Holding him tightly, carefully, she felt the warmth of his body, the weariness, and tutted to herself. Really, she hadn't been nearly harsh enough with Marcus on the phone. 

"It's good to see you," he whispered, and that was all she needed to know about the situation. 

That soft, vulnerable tone could take her back thirty years, and she knew that in that moment he had stopped being Agent Coulson and had gone back to being Phillip. 

Well that was just fine with her – if even half of what Marcus had told her was true he needed the time off. 

"It's good to see you too darling," she said, pulling back to touch his cheek. "Are you alright?" 

"Right enough," he replied, and she nodded, let him go to hike up the bag he'd shrugged off. 

"Hello Clint," she said softly, turning to the young man who stood a little anxiously beside them, shifting on and off of his bad ankle. "How are you sweetheart?" 

Projecting her intentions, she leaned in close, drew him into a warm, encompassing hug of his own, and the way his spine stiffened before he absolutely melted into the embrace told her all she needed to know about that too. Poor thing, still nervous, unsure of his welcome, awkward in front of his supervisor's family... 

Clearly Phillip had yet to put either of them out of their misery. 

"Hey Mrs. C," he replied, reluctantly letting go and then shuffling awkwardly on his feet, shoving his hood back to scrub a hand through his hair and rub the back of his neck bashfully. "Thanks, for... putting me up. Didn't know Fury was going to..." 

"Oh, don't you worry about Marcus," she said, waving him off. "I can handle that crusty old blackguard. And really, it's no trouble - Robert and I are more than used to having a full house, and any friend of my son's is always welcome." 

The young man blinked at her, opened his mouth but couldn't seem to find any words, and the soft look of surprise on his face, of not really understanding was so innocent and profound it nearly broke her heart. As it was she had to turn away so they wouldn't see her tearing up, _her_ , old army medic who could grit her teeth and set a broken leg without a pang for the young man screaming beneath her hands. 

Oh, she was getting soft and silly in her old age. 

"Come along sweetlings," she encouraged, falling back into a speech pattern she hadn't used in a long time. "Let's get you home." 

She didn't miss how Clint seemed to pale a bit, to falter at the words, but he passed it off as pain, a stumble in the walking boot, and that seemed to work just fine for him because it made Phillip catch his elbow, hold on lightly despite his protests, and she didn't miss the shy, secret little smile it put on his face either. 

Her son ended up giving the archer the front passenger seat, sliding it all the way back so that he could stretch out his leg and be at least a little bit comfortable in her cramped little car. It was zippy and sporty and bright red and she loved it dearly, but she certainly hadn't bought it with large, muscular agents in mind. Still, he seemed to do all right, dragging off his sweatshirt and balling it up into a pillow before tipping the seat back and promptly falling asleep. In the rearview mirror she saw Phillip roll his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned in the way they always did when he was trying not to smile. 

Three minutes later he had failed miserably when Clint began to mutter something about radioactive rabbits under his breath. That had been one for the holiday table if she remembered correctly, clearance level low enough to share with the family. Phillip's niece and nephew had been delighted by the image of badass special agent Uncle Phil running around with a broom and a fishing net rounding up two dozen bunnies that had shone green like glow sticks in the dark. Clint hadn't been mentioned at the time but it was nice to know that not all their missions were life-and-death, left them looking like the dog's dinner. 

It was a forty-five minute drive back from the airport, and by the time she pulled into the drive Phillip too had dozed off against the window. The rumble of the garage door roused him but Clint slept dead through, until his hand on the younger man's shoulder urged him awake. 

"Five more minutes," he grumbled, rubbing his cheek against the seat leather. " 'S two left." 

"On your feet Barton," Phillip said gently through a yawn, giving his agent a light slap on the shoulder before climbing out of the car. "The rabbits can take care of themselves." 

Blinking awake, she saw him frown at her son through the window before pushing the door open and wobbling out. 

"Like the Easter from hell," he muttered, accepting his duffel from the back seat. 

"At least they weren't poisonous." 

Shaking her head, lips pursed to keep down a chuckle, she shepherded them inside, asked after a light lunch but both of them shook their heads, already bleary-eyed and wavering on their feet. It was good to see Phillip drop his guard like that, see the tension go as he shed the last bit of composure and leadership he wore like a suit of armor, but she still pressed a glass of water on each of them, made sure they drank it all down before showing them up the hallway. 

"The guest room is all set up for you Clint, or you can bunk in with Phil if you like," she said, light, breezy, like his answer wouldn't shock or interest her either way. "However you'll sleep best." 

The young man went bright red and wide-eyed and she wanted to laugh, to reassure him, but instead she just stepped into the guest room, clicked on the light and ran her eye over it before leaving him to decide. She'd aired and dusted early that morning, when the call from Marcus had dragged her awake. She was used to it by now, no longer panicked when the phone rang at two or three in the morning, and since this time it had come with the promise of a week's uninterrupted visit from her son and the delivery of a New York cheesecake, she hadn't minded so much. 

"Get some rest," she said, calm and easy. "No work tomorrow. No phones, no calls, no world ending. If you sleep through the night, it will all still be here tomorrow." 

Pressing a kiss to both their cheeks, she left them to it and headed back toward the den, but even with her back turned she caught her son sigh and jerk his chin, saw Clint Barton follow after him.

**AVAVA**

They slept through till the next morning, the both of them, only getting up once about twenty minutes apart that evening to use the washroom. Phillip had gone to the kitchen for two bottles of Gatorade, kept in the refrigerator for just such an occasion, and had smiled blearily at her and Robert as he passed through the living room. He must have left the bedroom door open when he'd gone back, because as she and her husband went down the hall to their own bed some time later she caught a glimpse of him and his agent passed out on top of the sheets, not quite tangled together but close to it.

He was first up the next day – she'd like to call it morning if it weren't so close to noon – appearing in the kitchen showered and shaved and dressed in his civilian clothes, old jeans and a casual button-down, soft with wear. Starting a pot of coffee, he pressed a kiss to her cheek before sitting down at the island to wait, more relaxed than she had seen him in a very long time. 

There was little talk between them. She and Phillip had always tended to communicate in other ways, moving around each other, sharing space or activities, so it was easy to do. Taking a seat across from her son, she made neat, shorthand notes on a legal pad about her next novel while Phillip worked the crossword puzzle in the paper, savoring his first two cups of coffee. Boris had come round in the night, waiting on the patio for her to let him inside, and after a saucer of milk he too made himself comfortable in Phillip's presence, getting a good, long stroke before draping himself over his person's shoulders like a mink stole. 

He rode there calmly, confidant that Phillip wouldn't knock him off when he got up to refill his coffee mug a third time, heaping it liberally with sugar this round. Eloise raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, and was impressed with her son's timing when, only seconds after he sat down again, Clint came shuffling into the kitchen and headed straight for him. 

Blinking owlishly the blonde stopped less than a foot away, standing just behind Phillip's shoulder, who hadn't turned, and tilting his head. 

"Kitty," he mumbled, and then he was pushing his face against her son's shoulder where Boris sat, rubbing cheeks with the feline when the cat immediately reciprocated, purring like a freight train. 

Phillip rolled his eyes but she could see the corner of his mouth tick, a familiar gesture she'd learned to read many years ago. 

"Coffee," he countered, sliding the mug sideways into Clint's line of view, and then the sugar made more sense, though she found it interesting he hadn't just chosen to fetch a new mug down from the cabinet. 

The smile that the gesture brought to the younger man's face changed his whole countenance, making him suddenly young and happy and weightless, and Phillip took a moment to stare when his agent brought the mug to his mouth and inhaled, savored with a quiet hum of pleasure. Catching her gaze, he swallowed, cleared his throat before dragging Boris down from his shoulder, giving him a scratch and setting him loose on the floor. 

"Well, what will you boys do with yourselves with a whole week off?" she asked, setting down her pencil to take a sip of her own tea. "Any big plans?" 

"Eat, sleep, and avoid my boss," Phillip said flatly. "At least that's what I've been told." 

Clint didn't answer, just sat silently bedside her son with his eyes closed, a little smile on his face as he cradled his mug in both hands, elbows on the counter as he breathed in the steam. 

"Oh now don't be like that darling," she said, going back to her sketching. "Anyone would think you didn't want to come visit your poor mother." 

"Lies and slander," he said, getting to his feet and crossing around behind her to press a kiss to her temple. "Why, what are your plans?" 

"Oh, just getting some work done. I have a deadline in a few months and I scrapped my last idea about a week ago. I've been puttering around with a few others, nothing concrete yet." 

"What are you working on?" 

Ellie smiled, certain the young man had only had the courage to ask because he was still half asleep, though not enough to mask the sincere curiosity in his voice. 

It was sweet really. 

"Mum writes dime novels," Phillip answered for her, and she could hear the teasing in his voice. "Those Harlequin romances you like so much and always blame on Natasha." 

"Really?" Clint brightened, leaning forward. "That's... hey, wait a minute!" 

This time Phillip laughed, a loud, full laugh she only heard when he was safe and comfortable and had fully dropped his Agent Coulson persona. Ignoring Clint's glare, he wrapped an arm around her waist and hugged her gently before letting go again. 

"Dad in the garage?" he asked. 

"He is," she confirmed, "We'll be having lunch in about half an hour – let him know, will you sweetheart?" 

"Yes ma'am." 

Clapping Clint on the shoulder as he passed, Phillip headed for the carport, Boris springing down from the back of the couch to go dashing off on his heels. Clint looked a bit alarmed to be left alone, a bit unsure about what he should do, and he shifted on his stool for a moment before casting her a bashful look, his cheeks pinking. Offering him a smile, she got to her feet and fetched the coffee pot, refilling his mug and offering him the sugar bowl. 

"So," she said, watching him over her shoulder as she carried the carafe to the sink. "Ever read Ellen Clarke?"


	9. Chapter 9

Clint had read Ellen Clarke before, much to Phil's chagrin. He'd known for a long time that the paperback romances that kept popping up during missions didn't belong to the cynical redheaded spy he worked with, which only left the silly, snarky archer as the culprit. He didn't mind so much until the week they were all stuck in a safe house together and he found one stuffed down between the mattress and the wall – one with his mother's pen name emblazoned across the cover. He'd nearly fumbled the thing and gone bright red when Natasha walked in before he could replace it, and who knows what she'd made of that. 

It was silly, a hobby his mother had only indulged in the last few years when her retirement started to weigh on her, and he took every opportunity to tease her lovingly for it. His sisters had too, at least until she started making something of a name fore herself, started getting commissions for longer, more serious pieces. Thus far it seemed she'd yet to start any of them, but time would tell. 

Still, it was a jolt to come back into the house with his father for lunch and find Clint and his mother discussing the character development of 'A Billionaire's Booty.' 

God bless Robert Coulson for the forbearing man he was – Phil was horrified that one day he might end up in one of Ellen Clark's books. 

He didn't know how his father did it. 

It had only been two days and already he couldn't stand it. Every time he walked into a room and Clint was there with a paperback in his hands, he beat an immediate retreat, cheeks burning. He'd made the mistake of picking up one of his mother's books once – he knew exactly what was between those covers. 

Never again. 

Still, the last forty-eight hours had done both Clint and himself a world of good as they wallowed around in his mother's attention like gluttons. They spent those first two days doing next to nothing, sleeping in separate bedrooms now but napping side-by-side on and off throughout the afternoons. Phil spent time with his father in the garage when the man wasn't volunteering at the library, or playing fetch with Boris who retrieved as well as any dog Phil had ever met, while Clint hung around inside the house chatting with his mother and reading those infernal books. 

Friday rolled around and after another blueberry pancake breakfast late in the morning his mother went out on a list of errands, leaving the two of them alone in the house for the first time. It could have been strange, should have been awkward, but Phil found himself already far more comfortable having Clint in his personal space than he thought possible. 

He wasn't sure if that made things better or not. 

It was ok here, right now, but later when they were back at SHIELD... 

He didn’t know what it would mean then, and that concerned him. 

He didn't want things to change but... 

Well, he couldn't honestly say that. 

Perhaps it was better just to say he was unwilling to risk a change. 

What he had built with Clint was a carefully crafted tower of trust; it was sturdy and stable because it had a solid foundation, years which Phil had spent respecting Clint, listening to him, never lying to him or abusing him or leaving him behind. As his boss, as his handler, Phil was a point of reliability for Clint, a point of safety, and asking for more, pushing for more felt like taking a sledgehammer to glass. It made him anxious, made him worry that this new thing, bringing Clint into his life outside of work would jeopardize their working relationship. Here the archer would begin to see him as human, as fallible, and that threatened Phil's position as omniscient, all-competent handler. 

He didn't care if Clint were disillusioned with him (mostly anyway), but the thought of Clint second-guessing him, hesitating when Phil said duck, that thought absolutely terrified him. 

It was thoughts like those that could get his asset killed, and even the mere idea of it was more than Phil could handle. 

So he would have to be careful, pay attention, figure out what to do. 

When he got back to headquarters anyway. 

For now he'd been forbidden from SHIELD, from emails or texts or paperwork, even from thoughts of work, so he would put it off, ignore it, stick his head in the sand and hope the problem went away. 

Or stick his head in the water, as the case might be. 

Afternoon sun hot and yellow and bright, Phil bit the bullet and dragged on a pair of black swim trunks, grabbed a towel and some sunscreen and headed out to the backyard. Clint made an indignant yelping sound as he passed through the living room and jumped to his feet, changing as quickly as his walking boot would allow and scurrying after him. By the time he got out to the pool Phil had sprayed down with sunblock and gotten himself laid out on a lounge chair, already going loose and relaxed in the pleasant heat. 

If the sight of Clint in a pair of jewel blue board shorts and nothing else locked up his stomach muscles it was nobody's business but his own, thank you very much. 

With a wicked grin, Clint stepped up to the edge of the deck, spun on his heel, and snapped Phil a cocky salute as he tipped over backwards into the water. 

The resultant splash sent a small wave cascading up over the side in a mist of fine droplets, sparkling in the sun and falling over him like rain. Clint surfaced with smile on his face that said he knew exactly what he'd done, flinging his hair out of his eyes with a laugh and treading water. Phil arched an eyebrow, glad for his extra-dark aviators and secure in knowing that he could stare all he liked now without being caught. 

"Not coming in bossman?" Clint called, smug, glittering little bastard. "The water's fine!" 

"Maybe later," he says, and he doesn't regret it because for the next hour he gets to watch Clint splash around like a kid, all huge grins and delicate, underwater choreography as he swims around the pool, spinning and cartwheeling and every once in a while climbing out to jump back in on the deep end. It's strangely artistic with all his gymnast's grace, but childish at the same time, gleeful abandon written all over his face for anyone to see. 

"You're staring sweetheart." 

Phil nearly flails right off his deck chair when his mother appears beside him with a bucket full of ice, capped mason jars of homemade blackberry lemonade nestled inside, and he thanks god Clint's underwater because he'd not sure which is more embarrassing, what she said or the fact that she snuck up on him in the first place. 

"Was not," he denies petulantly as the archer resurfaces. There's an inner tube shaped like a pineapple floating around out there and he pulls himself up, flops into it and lets his feet dangle. 

"Hey Mrs. C," he calls, sending his mother a silly little wave, and Phil watches as she waves back. 

"Whatever you say dear," she adds with a smile as she leans down to pull a jar from the ice. "But you know for a spy, you really ought to be better at this." 

Phil just scowls – his mother is getting senile in her old age – but she's still got good aim. One easy pitch sends the jar arcing through the air straight into Clint's waiting hand and he laughs, offers up a delighted smile. 

"Nice arm!" he exclaims, and his mother shoots him a wink. 

"Don't forget to shake it darling," she quips, and the she's dancing down the steps and back into the house like she hasn't set out specifically to torment her only son. 

He can only be grateful that it's just Clint here – god forbid his mother and the Black Widow ever meet. 

Clint laughs, shakes the jar and cracks the lid, takes a long sip from the rim, prompting Phil to reach for his own. The muddled blackberries in the bottom turn the drink swirling purple when he gives it a flip, the lemonade tart and sweet and refreshing, reminding him of a dozen summers spent here, all lovingly bittersweet in their own right. 

He's missed this. 

"God I needed this," Clint groans softly as he floats closer to the edge of the pool where Phil's laid out sunbathing. His head is thrown back over the edge of the inner tube, his arms and legs dangling in the water, and Phil gets an incredible view of his chest, toned and strong, the long line of his throat, droplets clinging to him and glinting in the sun. "Thanks boss." 

Phil's mouth goes dry and he swallows hard, reminded of the reality of their relationship and prickling with guilt for daydreaming about another one. 

"You're not the only one," he manages to say in a clear, steady tone. "I don't get out here to visit as much as I should." 

"They know you're busy saving the world," Clint replies, and it's careful and quiet and gentle in a way he's not expecting. "I'm sure they understand." 

Phil eyes him from behind his sunglasses, can't get a read on him when he's lying there in lazy contentment, sunning himself like a cat and half-asleep. 

"You shouldn't idolize me so much," he hears himself say, and it's true – he's not perfect, not even close – but it's not something he's happy to admit, especially to Clint. "I'm no hero." 

"Would it be too cheesy to say you're mine?" 

Phil feels a shock roll over his body, electricity beneath his skin and he doesn't move, doesn't even breathe. Something swells inside his chest – pride, caution, sheer delight – but he can't seem to process it, so he just sits there like an idiot, half-sitting up and staring, hopefully with his mouth closed. Really that's all he can hope for. 

Clint lifts his head, tips up his shades to peer at him with one eye as his inner tube slowly rotates around, then drops them again, scrunches down inside the inflatable ring as best he can. 

"Yup, too cheesy." 

He brings up something else after that, tries to make out like nothing weird just happened, but the conversation is a little bit stilted, the easy, sun-drenched calm no longer there. Phil waits as long as he can stand but the sudden tension is now so thick, so obvious that his tolerance, his composure is shot. It can't be more than five minutes and he's pushing up from his lounge chair, making a stupid excuse that he doesn't even hear, and slinking off back into the house. 

He finds his mother in the kitchen, tossing a huge summer salad and squishing out hamburger patties on wax paper. There's another bucket of lemonade jars chilling in the sink, and the ingredients for her homemade barbecue sauce on the counter. Nothing so surprising in and of itself; she and his father often grilled outdoors throughout the summer, but she was making enough to feed an army – even more than he and Clint could chow down. She hears him come in, quirks an eyebrow when she looks up to find him alone but doesn't say anything. 

"What are you up to?" he asks suspiciously, his eyes narrowed, but she just smiles at him and Phil knows that look. 

It does not reassure him.

He opens his mouth to ask again, to beg if he has to – please don't make this harder than it already is – but then he hears a car in the drive through the open window and the familiar shrieking of his niece and nephew, the bark of their dog as they all go piling out of their family van. 

"What did you do?" 

It's a frantic demand this time as Phil's eyes immediately flash to the various exits, calculating time and distance. His mother arches a prim eyebrow, rinses her hands. 

"I have no idea what you're referring to darling," she says sweetly. "Your sister brings the kids over to swim every weekend." 

"Mother..." 

"Oh my god, _Phil_?" 

He doesn't get to finish his scolding, doesn't even really get to start it, because the next thing he knows he's being barreled over by his gleefully squealing sister, the oldest of the three Coulsons and a Coulson no more. Elizabeth Bishop is already off and chattering in his ear, her arms locked around him in a hug that reflects just how long he's been away and he can't do anything but smile as he holds her three inches off the ground, rocking her back and forth a few times before he puts her down again. 

"Mom didn't say anything about you coming, you actually got a vacation?" she babbled happily. "When did you get here? How long can you stay? Oh, it doesn't matter, you're here now!" 

"It's good to see you too Beth," he smiles, pressing a kiss to her hair and hugging her once more before letting her go. "Derek." 

"Christ Phil, put a shirt on!" the big man groans, slapping his soft belly self-deprecatingly and cracking a huge grin. "Giving the rest of us a complex." 

Roaring a laugh, his brother-in-law slaps away his handshake and pulls him in for a rib-crushing bear hug, and Phil's got a smile for him too. He likes Derek Bishop, always has. He's a good match for his sister, cheerful, kind, and an attentive husband. Though he came from Manhattan money, he was more than happy to move to Colorado where Beth had set up a successful optometry practice, and he's never squandered his time or his intelligence just because he was rich. His computer brokerage was on the up-and-up (Phil had checked – that and everything else), and his disposition was never anything but pleasant and affable. 

"How have you been?" Phil asks, and Derek chuckles, waves him off. 

"Fine, fine, never anything duller than stocks and numbers. But what about you? That boss finally give you a day off from spy business." 

"Something like that," Phil laughs, but from the way he and Beth both sit down at the counter (only after giving the Coulson Matriarch her due kiss on the cheek) he knows he's not getting off that easy. "Was getting a little run down so Marcus sent us out here for a week." 

"And he sent a cheesecake too," Ellie smiled, dusting off her hands, "All the way from..." 

"Woah, hang on, _rewind_!" Beth yelps, her eyes going huge and bright as a sharp grin spreads across her face. "Sorry mum, but did Phillip just say us?" 

Phil freezes, realizes that in the excitement of seeing his sister again he's forgotten one very important thing, on every important person who just happens to be stepping into the living room off the deck as they speak. 

"Yeesh, tough crowd," Clint garbles, words muffled as he scrubs his beach towel through his hair, trying and failing to stop himself from dripping on the mat. "Pretty sure I just got kicked out of the pool by like, a nine year old." 

Dropping the towel down around his shoulders, Clint sticks his finger in his ear, tilts his head like he's going to shake the water out. 

"By the way, you've got people in your... kitchen?"


	10. Chapter 10

Clint doesn't panic. 

He does _not_ panic. 

No, he just stands there, frozen, wide-eyed, dripping all over the Coulson's floor in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks and unable to do anything but stare. 

Deer in the headlights, well done Barton. 

Thought he'd trained that response out of himself at like, age four, but apparently not. 

It's ok though right? Cause Phil's calm, relaxed, not panicked. Well, he's always calm, never panicked, but this is... different. He's leaning against the kitchen island beside his mom, hip cocked, broad, bare shoulders loose, a soft smile tipping at the corners of his mouth even when he glances over at Clint. He must see that he's nervous because his fingers tick automatically, comm code, at ease agent, and that makes him feel a hell of a lot better, but not completely. 

The young woman who's staring at him like a kid staring at Christmas turns away and asks Phil something before turning back to him with a wide, expectant smile but his aids are in the bedroom and he can't hear her. He'd been reading lips out by the pool but she'd looked away and he was completely at a loss, something he feels a little more sharply here in front of Phil's sister than he usually did. And she has to be Phil's sister, because now that he really looks she's nothing if not a mini girl-Phil. 

Cheeks burning, he made a vague gesture near his ears, licked his lips nervously. 

"Sorry," he apologized, seeing Phil push upright out the corner of his eye. "I can't..." 

_Aids?_ Phil signs at him, and Clint shakes his head, goes for a wry but charming grin. 

"Still wet boss," he explains, because he can't very well stick his hearing aids back in when his ears are damp – that's a one way ticket to infection. Finally getting his feet moving again, he steps across the living room to the island that separates it from the kitchen, points at his own mouth. "But as long as I'm allowed to stare..." 

Sticking out a hand, he puts on his most winning smile. 

"Clint Barton," he introduced, and the woman took his hand in both of hers with a smile of her own to match. 

"Elizabeth Bishop," she replied, this time making sure to face him but not slowing or drawing out her speech the way people sometimes did. Beside her Phil's hands moved discretely, subconsciously signing the words. "But please, call me Beth. It's wonderful to finally meet you Clint." 

Finally? 

He cocks an eyebrow in Coulson's direction but Phil ignores him, and then Beth is directing him to the guy beside her, a bear of a man that puts Clint's own frame to shame, though he's a little thicker through the middle. 

"Derek Bishop," he nods, trading firm handshakes. "Hope the brat brigade didn't give you too much grief." 

"Nah," he laughs, shaking his head. "Just told me that I wasn't supposed to be in Nana Ellie's pool." 

"Oh lord, I am so sorry," Beth blushes, waiting till she's done to drop her face into her hands. 

"Stranger danger, I get it," Clint shrugs. "All yours?" 

"Three of the four," Derek nods, "Kate, Seffer, and the mutt. America's just over for the weekend while her parents are out of town." 

Makes sense – of the three kids that had come charging up onto the deck around the pool only one of them was Hispanic, but Clint hadn't wanted to assume. The scruffy, one-eyed mutt with them had belly-flopped right in and swum up to snuffle at him and lick his hands but the kids had stumbled to a halt, clearly bewildered to find a stranger in their nana's pool. He wasn't sure whether he was made more uncomfortable by the young boy pointing out he didn't belong there or the way the two teenage girls had oggled him. Either way he'd vacated the water pretty quick – he was getting pruny anyway. 

Now he just kinda wished he had a shirt on... 

Phil seems to notice his discomfort, even if Clint knows he hasn't given it away. A sniper doesn't squirm, but Coulson knows him, probably too well for his own good. 

"Aids," he repeats, his hands moving to sign even as he speaks aloud. "And put your boot back on." 

"Aw boss, no," he whines, but Phil shakes his head, mouth firm even if his eyes are bright. 

"Three more days," he insists, "Or it'll be a week. It was a bad sprain Barton; do me a favor and at least _try_ not to cripple yourself for life?" 

"Fine," Clint mutters, shooting him a narrow-eyed look as he turns toward the hallway, "But you owe me one back Coulson." 

"Duly noted Agent." 

Clint huffs but does as he's told, shoots off toward the guest bedroom he's been staying in and locks the door behind him. If he's in there a little longer than he should be fighting off a panic attack no one calls him on it when he returns more formally attired; shirt, hearing aids, walking boot and all. Phil's father had reappeared from wherever he's been and suddenly there's a yard full of people Clint doesn't know, people who are important because Phil is important, and they're important to him. 

Over the next few hours Clint does his best to remember names - something that's a little harder for him to do when he's so nervous. Beth is most definitely a Coulson through and through even if she's taken her husband's name, a tiny dynamo who reminds Clint scarily of Natasha. She somehow manages to take over the direction of dinner preparations, chivvying her father toward the grill and waving her mother off into a lawn chair to relax while she starts shucking sweet corn and assigning her husband to ferry everything else from kitchen to back deck in great, heavy armloads. The kids stay out of the way until dinner's called, laughing and shrieking and shouting as they jump and splash and swim around in the pool – Kate and her friend America, both fifteen, finally climbing out onto the lawn chairs to watch him surreptitiously from behind their over-sized sunglasses while eight-year-old Seth – _Seffer_ to his father and his uncle – comes down into the lawn to throw a tennis ball for the dog Lucky. 

It's all smiles and laughter and fast, happy chatter catching up, and it's delightfully, painfully domestic, and Clint's happy just to sit back and listen, to watch the way Phil's face lights up at his niece and nephew's antics and his sister's stories, his brother-in-law's uproarious laughter and bruising, breath-snatching shoulder slaps. 

It's different and it's strange and it's beautiful, and it's something he's never really thought about to be honest, never really imagined. It's hard to reconcile this Phil with the stone-cold bad-ass Agent Coulson he knows, master of competency and slayer of paperwork, wrangler of junior agents. Here it's like he's shed all of that, remarkable weight of his shoulders. Here he's a brother, an uncle, a son, a man who laughs when the family dog sprays everyone with water as he shakes out his coat and who can match the giant Derek Bishop bite for bite as they work their way through a mountain of burgers and corn on the cob, Ellie Coulson's incredible baked potato salad. 

It's a good look on Phil, he decides, and he doesn't think the afternoon can get any better, even if he is nervous and self-conscious out of his mind. Stupid, but he cares what these people think about him, if only because he's a reflection of his handler. He's pretty sure he's failing miserably on that account because he doesn't have a clue what to say for himself, too busy staring at his boss like an astonished, love-sick idiot to contribute much to the conversation. 

Oh god, they're gonna think he's a complete joke. 

Clint feels his cheeks burning but then suddenly out of nowhere Beth is dragging him into the conversation like her life depends on it and hell if the girl isn't good. She'd make a damned fine interrogator if she were inclined that way – it only seems like minutes but suddenly Clint finds himself laughing right along with everybody else, right in the thick of the conversation and the jokes and the stories and she's bumping shoulders with him where they sit next to each other and teasing her baby brother until he actually blushes, the great Phil Coulson reduced to pink-cheeked embarrassment when she suggests bringing out the photo albums. 

Clint's intrigued, of course he is, more by the idea of teenage punk rebel Coulson who'd apparently gone through a brief leather-and-eyeliner emo stage than by bare-assed baby Phil on a sheepskin rug or Captain America costumed Phil six Halloweens in a row, but he doesn't think he's gonna get that lucky. Phil's growling some kind of blackmail threat across the table and the situation quickly devolves into a full-out sibling squabble, complete with catapulted olives and ice cubes down the back of Beth's shirt. Clint watches surreptitiously to see how Phil's parents react as he chases his sister across the yard, the kids and the dog bounding after them, but Robert just rolls his eyes and settles in to talk numbers with Derek while Ellie laughs and watches on with bright, happy eyes. 

"Can I help clear?" Clint asks after a bit, afraid of what might show on his own face if he watches for much longer. 

"Oh no, leave that for a bit," she says, getting to her feet and gesturing him to follow. Crossing the deck, she opens that large plastic storage bench on the other side across from the table, leaning down and rummaging around a bit before coming back up with four very large and very colorful water guns. "Now Clint, I understand you're the World's Greatest Marksman..."

**AVAVA**

Ok.

This looks bad. 

Phil groans internally – that's Clint's line, not his. 

But this definitely looks bad. 

Tucked into the corner of the couch, he's chatting with Derek and his father and trying to ignore the fact that Beth and his mom are staring at him from the kitchen island with sparkling eyes and poorly hidden smirks, but there's nothing he can do about it at this point. When he'd told Clint to put his sprained ankle up for a bit of a rest, he hadn't expected the man to flop out on the couch beside him and put said ankle in his lap. 

After a rousing game of hunt and chase, Clint had proved himself the incredible agent he was by teaming up with Phil's mother and winning the game against Phil and the three kids. He'd been more than a little concerned about him running around on his bad ankle but he was a sniper at heart, even if it was all in fun. Clint had accepted a SuperSoaker and effectively disappeared into the yard, using every tree and obstacle available to ambush his niece and nephew and their friend while making sure Phil never got within ten yards of his own mother. 

Still, he'd overdone it, that much was obvious, and Phil had conceded defeat so that the adults could head back inside for coffee while the kids raced each other back to the pool. Clint hadn't quite been limping in his walking brace but over the years Phil had gotten extremely adept at gauging his pain, reading it in his face. Fully coherent, he was only slightly less resistant to taking his pain medication than he'd been after getting shot, steadfastly refusing until Phil bribed him with extra range time, a weakness he actually feels bad for exploiting. Clint gets a little loopy on the smallest dose of anything, and tends to go young and clingy and vulnerable, and this time is no exception. He's been hesitant and careful in his behavior all afternoon despite the evidence to the contrary, and Phil doesn't doubt that has a lot to do with his reluctance, but he still manages to convince him to take the prescription pills, and now he's paying the price. 

Twenty minutes later the archer could barely keep his eyes open and he'd cuddled up next to Phil on the sofa. There wasn't anything so strange in that – this was typical of how Clint acted on medications or after having been drugged or poisoned. He took comfort in keeping close to him or to Natasha, and he wouldn't begrudge the man that, especially here in a strange environment with strange people, but that didn't mean Phil didn't blush the color of a fire engine when Clint started to nod off against his shoulder, nuzzling into the fabric of his t-shirt and mumbling in Russian. 

The command he'd given had been innocuous – _Go to sleep Barton, put your foot up_ \- but leave it to Clint to make Phil sweat. 

He's not panicking. 

He is _not_ panicking. 

Ok, he's totally panicking. 

Even without his mother and sister staring at him like he's the most adorable thing in the world, Phil's learned a long time ago to listen to his body, to heed his own actions and reactions. It hadn't phased him in the least when Clint had toppled sideways on the couch and propped his bad ankle up on the pillow in Phil's lap, too out of it now to be so self-conscious in front of his family. It only took a few minutes for him to sleep, another side-effect of the medication, and a few more after that for Clint to start squirming, mumbling in his sleep. Robert and Derek hadn't paused or batted an eye when Phil dropped a hand onto Clint's bare shin to still him, but Beth and his mother, who were sipping coffee at the island, had immediately started tittering and giggling and whispering dramatically behind their hands, and suddenly he was horribly, hotly aware of what this looked like. 

This looked bad. 

Clint is his asset not his partner, his agent not his boyfriend. 

They're friends now, yes, but they had been colleagues first and needed to stay colleagues foremost, no matter how pleased and tingly Phil got watching him slowly warm up to his family, speaking to his father without flinching or hesitation, smiling and laughing openly and honestly with his mother. 

He needs to stop this. 

He's only hurting himself. 

Bringing Clint here, stupidly falling even more in love... 

It can't go anywhere, he knows that. 

_Won't_ go anywhere. 

He means something to Clint, he knows that. What the man had said in the pool, about Phil being his hero, it only serves to highlight that. Phil is a safe place, the first authority figure who hasn't taken advantage of their position over him, one of the only people he can trust through and through. 

It's dangerous, what he's doing, getting so close. 

He knows it is, not only because of the way his stomach's gone tight and anxious, but because of the way his mother is looking at them, the soft smile on her face as her eyes trace Clint's sleeping features and turn to him, so happy it hurts. 

He needs to stop this, while it's still only himself he's hurting.

**AVAVA**

Three days later, as they prepare to pile into the car and start the trek back to New York, Clint slips and calls Ellie 'Mama Coulson.' She's sweetly touched and not-so-secretly pleased, and she kisses both the boys on the cheek before shooing them out the door and on their way. She doesn't miss the silent panic in both their eyes, the way they startle and take subtle steps away from each other.

It's silly and a little sad, so blatantly obvious how hard they try not to touch each other, and it breaks her heart just a little bit as they walk away, get into their blacked out SUV and drive away, Clint offering up a hesitant little wave out the window. Phillip's her son and Clint is his subordinate; she can only imagine the types of things running through his mind. He always did need a bit of encouragement when it came to things like this – it had taken her weeks to convince him to try the earring and the eyeliner when he was sixteen and needed to try something new, to find a little self-confidence. 

She'd managed it in the end though, and this wasn't anything she couldn't handle either. What, with a little help from Beth and Marcus, it should be walk in the park.


	11. Thanksgiving Break --->

Operation Blackfin goes off without a hitch, and when they finally get back to base more than six weeks later, Phil starts distancing himself from Clint as best he can. It's hard, and he hates it, but he doesn't know what else to do. He tries not to be cruel or obvious about it, simply dialing back their relationship to that of a handler and asset, but Clint can tell, he knows it. It's made worse by the fact that there had been nothing but professional behavior on the mission, that he and Clint had worked together seamlessly just like they always had, but that one little slip, that one night where Clint had fit in a different way, with different people stuck in his mind. 

He'd never... 

It doesn't matter. 

Clint's his agent, his subordinate, and despite the stupid crush he's been nursing for the man for god knows how many years, that's all it can ever be. 

He's gotten a glimpse, a taste of what it could be like to have everything he wants, and it's more than he'd ever thought he'd get. 

He can... he can live with that. 

At least that's what he tells himself when he reschedules his daily check-ins with Fury to one o'clock to avoid being caught in his office at lunch time, or when he declines an invitation to movie night that he would typically jump on. Every decision is like a body blow because he hadn't realized just how much of his life was affected by the blonde archer, just how much space he had come to take up. He's surprised how much it hurts, losing the smaller intimacies that they share, but he still sees the hesitancy he displays sometimes, the nervous bite of his lip. 

It seems stupid. 

Half the time he's disgusted with himself. 

Things would be so much easier if he would just open his mouth, call the man in and sit him down and explain how he feels, promise that he won't let it influence their relationship. 

_I just wanted you to know..._

It sounds like an excuse, a bad one, like he's expecting something of Clint, and that's exactly what he doesn't want. 

Clint's shared so much over the years; he knows exactly what the man's been through. His past is a myriad of abuse and abandonment, of shattered trust and being taken advantage of by people who are supposed to care about him. 

Older men – mentors, protectors, authority figures – men in positions just like Phil. 

It's too much, too big a risk, so he pushes his own feelings aside. 

He knows he would never hurt Clint, never intentionally, and he knows he's good enough, conscientious enough that he doesn't think he could do it accidentally either. But no matter how far Clint has come, no matter how much stronger and braver and more confident in himself he is after all his years with SHIELD, it wouldn't take a hell of a lot to break that. Even a simple misunderstanding, even nonsensical panic could destroy everything they've built. 

It's not worth it. 

So he does what he does and he doesn't let himself regret it, no matter how much he wishes things were different. 

He doesn't order double Thai when he has to work through lunch, expecting Clint to drop in through the vents, and he stops getting his coffee from the good pot on the fifth floor and he stops doing his cardio in the early am when Clint's there doing his upper body workout. He avoids the range all together and avoids Natasha even harder. The way she looks at him makes him miserable and anxious by turns, and he makes doubly sure that any personal possessions he has that he doesn't want disappeared or destroyed are kept under lock and key. 

Nick appears to be keeping out of it this time, thank god, but he can't say the same for his mother. He makes a point of it to call her at least once a week unless absolutely impossible, and every time she asks him about Clint. It's hard to put her off so he does his best to give short, exasperated updates, to make her understand that Clint is just his coworker, his specialist. 

It doesn't seem to work - she keeps asking, and he can hear the sly smile in her voice even across staticky cell reception. 

At least his mother is halfway subtle in her inquiries. 

Beth's another matter entirely. 

"Clint is my _asset_ ," Phil growls when Beth asks him how G.I. Gorgeous is doing. 

"Hm, and what a fine asset it is too," she purrs down the line. 

"Oh for the love of… Mom's putting you up to this isn’t she?" he demands, actually stopping in the middle of the hallway to rest his hand on his hip. It's where he holsters his Taser when he's not on base, and several junior agents trip over their own feet in their haste to skirt around him. "How much is she paying you? I’ll double it." 

"Oh please baby brother," Beth scoffs. "You've never been able to afford me. Besides, like I'd actually need any _more_ incentive to take an interest in this than the way you were drooling over that fantastic ass last time you were here. Or the way you stared at those incredible arms. Or..." 

"Don't you _have_ a husband," Phil points out nastily, forcing himself not to squirm. 

"Or the way you two were cuddling on the..." 

He hangs up on her after that. 

He knows how he looks at Clint, knows how he feels about him. 

He doesn't need two of the most important women in his life rubbing his face in it. 

Besides, it's the way Clint's looking at him that he's worried about. 

It's a look of fear, of desperate hope that this isn't what he thinks it is. 

A look of pleading that Phil isn't really hiding from him, isn't ignoring his texts or skirting him in the gym or giving him the cold shoulder. 

A look that says no matter what Phil does, Clint's being betrayed. 

It's not long before he goes a step too far and fear inevitably turns to anger. 

It had been a quiet campaign up until Phil pulled a lower level sniper for one of his missions, Lance Hunter. The man was good, not nearly as good as Clint of course, _no one_ could touch Clint, but then the mission didn't really require someone of Clint's caliber. It's an excuse, a justification, he knows that, but at least this time it's one that makes sense. 

Only problem is that Clint's actually available to be pulled from the pool, on down time between missions with Strike Team Delta, and Phil's not expecting to be called on it. 

"If I didn't know any better Boss, I'd think you're avoiding me," he says with a smirk, all cocky, care-free facade when he finally corners Phil in his office and flops down onto the couch against the wall. "Word on the street is you're seeing other snipers." 

He's ashamed to say he panics, and regrets everything he says and does next. 

"I pulled Hunter for the op in Wichita, yes," he replies, standing up abruptly and shuffling his papers together into a stack. "It's a milk run, in and out. I didn't need you for this one." 

_Fuck._

He immediately wants to take the words back but that's just the problem isn't it? Between him and any of the other agents he's ever handled, those words wouldn't mean a damned thing, would be perfectly normal, wouldn't sting, but it's not any other agent, it's Clint, and the hurt that flashes across his face is like a knife in Phil's chest. 

"I have a briefing," he hears himself say, his body cold and numb as he picks up his paperwork, lying through his teeth. "So..." 

He pauses, waits, makes an awkward half gesture, and Clint's face hardens. 

Any other time he would've just left the man where he is, esconced in the plush cushions of the couch until he came back. He'd never kicked him out before - hell, he'd had the couch brought in for the express purpose of convincing the man to catch a few moments sleep back when he'd first come to SHIELD and was still having problems with nightmares and insomnia. Never, not since that first time that Clint hesitantly and warily laid down and dosed off had Phil ever pulled him off of it for anything short of an immediate mission or an impromptu fire drill. 

He doesn't say a word. 

He doesn't brush against Phil when he squeezes by him out the office door. 

He doesn't look back as he strides off down the hall, and he doesn't call Phil out on the fact that there isn't a briefing scheduled for the next three hours that day, that his milk-run with Hunter isn't for another six days. 

In those six days Phil doesn't hear a word from the archer, doesn't catch a glimpse of him in the halls or on the security cameras or in one of the conference rooms. He's knows that things have gone horribly wrong - it's those six days that convince him, the four that follow on mission, and it feels like his carefully constructed world has come crashing down. He's done his best in these last few months to get back to handler and asset, to do what he thinks is best for Clint and for himself, for the both of them together, but that's not working either, and now he's facing a future that's exactly what he'd hoped to avoid – hurting Clint, losing him altogether. 

It's his turn to be hung up on when he calls Natasha for advice, and the next thing he knows she's gone on an undercover op for Fury in Bejing. By the time he gets back to headquarters from his own, Clint's been pulled by Agent Jose Jimenez for an extended mission in Salzburg. It's not a secret that there's no love lost between the two, and Phil doesn't understand why he insists on pulling Clint whenever he can despite the animosity that's always existed between them. He's not too worried – in the grand scheme of things Clint is worth more to SHIELD than he is, and when the tough calls are made, should war necessitates chosing, Clint's not the one who's file is marked _Expendable._ It will be tough on the archer, of that he has no doubt, but Clint will come home eventually, even if he comes home in one hell of a black mood. 

All this means is that Phil will have to wait, that he has plenty of time to wallow in his feelings and worry at his words, work over and over what he's going to say, sketch out his apology a dozen different times to make sure he hits all the high points. 

Plans B through E have all proven failures – time to move on to plan F for _Fuck It_ and go back to Plan A. 

Sit him down and tell him the truth. 

That Phil's scared. 

That he likes him, yes, but he doesn't want things to change. 

That he won't ever push anything on him, that he never wanted to become one more man in a long line of individuals to let Clint down. 

The thought makes him sick but he's ready to do it. 

He's only got three more days to survive before Clint comes home. 

Then the mission goes to shit and everything changes. 

Clint and two other junior agents are captured and stuck in a cell for interrogation, and Fury actually has Phil assemble a team to go in for extraction because Jimenez turns out to be shit at it. How that had flown under the radar Phil has no idea, but he's already re-writing the tests for promotion to handler in his head as they prepare to go in and get Clint back. 

He's not panicking, he's not – Clint has been in these kinds of situations before and he's _good_ at them, at turning the tables on his torturers and coming out with more inside information than bruises. Phil's listening in on the comms and just as he's ready to board a jet with his team, Clint liberates himself and his fellow agents, torches the dungeon where they were being kept and beats feet back to the rendezvous point. 

It's been four days, Clint's voice is shaky over the radio, and it's clear that something's wrong. He's angry, fed up, furious, but there's something else, something more underneath it all. He's finished the job, grabbed the hard drive they'd been after in the first place before blowing up the bad guys' hideout but he's still storming, hands jerky on the quinjet's controls according to the blackbox, and his voice is viciously sharp when he barks at his flustered handler. 

_Get the fuck out of my cockpit asshole!_

Phil can't help a grin and a chuckle – it feels half hysterical but that gruff anger is so damned reassuring that he can't help it. 

It loosens a knot in his chest that's been tightening ever since he and Clint had left his parents' house so many months ago, and at the same time it makes him realize just how much he's missed Clint since he started putting up a wall between them. 

He's a strong man with a will of iron, but he wonders if maybe this isn't a sign from god to stop fighting. 

They could... they could still be friends right? 

He could do that. 

He didn't have to give that up. 

Right? 

As much as he waffles about it in thet time it takes Clint to fly his team back to HQ, it turns out that it doesn't matter all that much. 

Clint's still pissed, rightly so, actually shoulder checks him as he passes Phil on the flight deck and voluntarily walks himself in to medical. Phil's never seen him do that, not once, and it startles him. Turns out Clint's been consistently drugged with an unknown compound every hour or so during his time in captivity, one with a rapid addiction rate, and feels like utter shit. He'll live – the drug's not as dangerous as some opiods out there - but the withdrawals set in within hours. There's nothing medical can do to make him more comfortable so they discharge him to go sweat the stuff out somewhere else, and Phil spends the next few hours watching him batter a boxing bag down in the gym like it's wearing his face. 

Their timing sucks. 

Thanksgiving is two days away, and Phil's flight leaves in less than three hours. He's cutting it close but he'd needed to see Clint back safe, needed to talk to him before he left. Now it's clear that the younger man probably isn't ready or willing to hear anything that Phil has to say, but his agitation, the set of his shoulders, the way he kicks a dent into the door of his locker before disappearing from the cameras - all of it tells him that Clint shouldn't be left alone right now. 

It takes him two hours to search the base and nearly all of the vents before he finds Clint in one of the community kitchens, down in baby agents' barracks. The man's moving twitchily around the space, up and down the long length of the countertop and back and forth from oven to fridge. There are very few people out there who know that Clint's the one behind the baked goods that magically appear in SHIELD lounges and break rooms after a bad mission – usually he can't be found anywhere near an oven before two am – but there he is with an efficient little assembly line going, funneling pies from filling station to baking station with a nervous energy that shows in the way his normally steady hands shake. 

"Clint?" 

He doesn't answer, doesn't react outside of the way his shoulders tighten up. 

"Barton. Are you ok?" 

"No." 

It's short, sharp, succinct, punctuated by the way Clint slams the over door shut and drops a metal tray of pies onto the counter with a clatter. Turning on his heel he takes three long strides, puts himself right in front of Phil inside his personal space, uses the breadth of his chest and the two inches he has on him to loom large and cold and furious. 

"But since you're apparently talking to me again, why don't you tell me why you even give a good god damn?" 

He wants to touch him. 

It's overwhelming just how much he wants to touch him in that moment. 

It's all he can think, all he can feel, even as Clint's anger crackles against his skin like fireworks. 

He wants to place his palm flat against that wide, strong chest, feel the heart pounding beneath it, soothe the man, gentle him. 

He doesn't think it would be welcome. 

"Because you matter," he hears himself say, distantly as if from the end of a long, narrow tunnel, and it's as close to a real confession as he's ever come. "Because you're my asset." 

Blinking, he swallows, tunes back in so that he's actually plugged in to his brain. Clint's staring at him with shock and surprise and something else, and the anger is still there, it is, but there's hope too, and it's enough to shame Phil into opening his mouth again, even though he'd rather just kiss the man and have done with it, harassment suit be damned. 

"I was wrong and you deserve an explanation," he says sadly, putting his hands into his pockets where they'll be safe. "An apology. But I have to catch a plane to Portland in about forty minutes..." 

Clint licks his lips, looks him up and down and clears his throat, before turning away, hunching in on himself and folding his arms around his ribs. 

"Then go," he says hoarsely. "You shouldn't... your mom would want to see you." 

Sighing, Clint unwraps himself and leans against the counter where his pies are cooling, hangs his head. 

"I'll be here when you get back." 

"Come with me." 

Phil doesn't act spontaneously. 

He isn't emotionally reactive, doesn't do things he hasn't thought through. 

Maybe that's his problem, because Clint's head snaps up so fast Phil doesn't have time to blink, and he looks completely dumbstruck by what Phil's just blurted out. 

"What?" 

"You shouldn't be alone right now," Phil says, clearing his throat and straightening up. "I don't... I don't _want_ to leave you alone. Come with me." 

"No," he says finally, shaking his head, "No I couldn't..." 

"Why not?" 

Clint blinks, looks surprised that Phil is pushing this at all, but he's got his reason ready. 

"It's a holiday Coulson," he says gruffly, shrugging and stepping toward the counter again to start sliding pies into the little cardboard take-away boxes he's dug up somewhere. "It's a family thing." 

"You've already met half of them," Phil snorts. "Besides, you should be with family too. Nat's on mission till at least the thirtieth." 

Clint narrows his eyes and frowns. 

"Why are you asking me?" he demands quietly. "Why now? The last time I went home with you..." 

"I know," Phil says. "And I'll explain, if that's what you want." 

"Are you sure?" 

Clint's question sounds small and young and disbelieving, and it's that more than anything that makes Phil feel like an absolute jackass. 

"I'm sure," he nods. "Look what happens when I leave you alone for too long." 

"Not my fault you've been avoiding me," Clint mutters, turning back to his boxes. 

"No, it's not, and I'm sorry for that too. It wasn't fair. I'll understand if you don't want to come, but Clint, I'd... I'd like it if you would. I know my mother would, and I'm sure Beth would like to see you again." 

Clint bites his lower lip, fiddles with the edge of a pie pan before nodding. 

"Fine," he says, "But only cause Nat's not here and I don't want you skipping out on your mom to chase me back to medical. That's not fair to _her_ , and I'm still mad at you." 

"Understood," he says with a nod, biting back a smile. "Meet me at the parking garage in ten?" 

"Yeah sure." 

Well, it's not exactly an enthusiastic response, but at least It's a step in the right direction.


	12. Chapter 12

He ends up missing his flight. 

His own fault really – he'd seen it coming as soon as Clint's mission had started going south days ago, and he ends up getting waylaid by Fury on the way out of HQ. It took tugging on quite a lot of strings to figure it out – he wouldn't have been able to get an extra last-minute commercial ticket so close to the holidays anyway, but a few favors owed by the kinds of people who don't celebrate holidays are always good to have in the back pocket. A private plane picks them up and ferries them all the way to Idaho where they make the switch to a rental truck and it's probably for the best. The engine of the tiny Cessna is too loud for much conversation, making for a good excuse, and by the time they change their mode of transportation the pilot is eyeing his back-seat passenger the way a cabbie eyes a car-full of drunken college bros he picked up outside of a seedy, all-night taco stand. 

Clint isn't doing well. 

He sleeps for most of the drive. At least, Phil thinks he's asleep. He could just be avoiding him as best as he possibly can within the confines of the car. Curled up against the window, he's turned away, huddled inside his SHIELD-issued flak jacket, shaking and sweating out the drug in his system. He clutches the small duffel he's brought along like a child's teddy bear, his bow case wedged between his knees where he can reach it instead of in the back seat with everything else, and it needles at Phil that he feels like he needs it, wants it close. 

He probably deserves that. 

Hours pass in painful silence and this time Phil doesn't even attempt to organize his thoughts, to line up all the things he needs to say. He doesn't know how to begin making up for what's transpired these last few weeks, and it seems easier to focus on the familiar highways, the endless ramps and turns and the thick, relentless crush of traffic. 

An explanation, an apology, even one as honest and heartfelt as the one pressing against his breast bone waiting to be spoken seems pale and paltry, not nearly enough. 

And of course there's always the chance that things could get even worse isn't there? 

Honesty could go very, very badly for him. 

Flicking on his blinker, Phil guided the SUV down off the highway and turned in the direction of his parents' quiet neighborhood, no longer lush and green in the heat of summer but blazingly red and orange and yellow, the trees slowly going bare as fall begins to give way to winter. It's still fairly warm considering the time of year – it hasn't snowed yet at least. The air is brisk and Phil thanks all his gods that his family has never participated in the annual Thanksgiving tradition of playing football. The last thing he needs is another set of bruises and a hoarse throat acquired outside of an emergency situation. 

Besides, no way would Clint be able to keep up. 

Phil risks a long look at the man before turning back to the road. He's white as a sheet and clammy, and scowling as he shifts and squirms in his seat. His hand is out before he knows what he's doing, reaching out to touch him, to squeeze his elbow, but he stops himself. If he is asleep, Phil doesn't want to wake him, if he's not... 

Well, if he's not he's made it clear he's not ready for a conversation. 

Ten minutes later he pulls into his parents' neighborhood and Clint stirs, breathes in deep and unsteady and sits up. Phil suspects that's a fairly good sign he's been faking and feels guilt and disappointment settle heavy in the pit of his belly. He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, _anything_ , but Clint's out of the car before he gets a word out, jerking at the handle until Phil puts the vehicle in park and the locks disengage. He shoulders the door open and wobbles when his boots his the driveway, all his usual grace gone under the influence of the drug in his system, but he's determined and slings his duffel over his shoulder. 

All Phil can do is scramble after him, but he's slow enough to see Clint hesitate, to reach back in for his bow before clenching his fingers and leaving it behind. 

His hands are full regardless. 

He doesn't comment when Phil pulls open the back door for him, steps aside so he can reach in to grab his pie boxes. He does it carefully, so that their bodies don't brush, and it drives home the point that before, before all this, they'd been comfortable with each other, in a way that Phil is with very, very few people. 

Between that and the silence, he's cursing himself for the world's damndest idiot. 

Clint makes it to the door before him and if it didn't look for all the world like he was running, Phil would take it for a good sign - that he's still comfortable here, at his childhood home with his mother inside. He rings the front bell, his shoulders high and tight when Phil steps up beside him and determinedly staring straight ahead until the door opens and Phil dies a slightly early death of mortification because his sister is the one who opens it in all her blue-haired glory and he knows exactly what's coming. 

"Oh. My god," Annabelle says flatly, her eyes huge in her face and her mouth hanging open before she turns and shouts over her shoulder. "Mom! Phil brought the boyfriend! And the boyfriend brought pie!"

**AVAVA**

"Oh for heaven's sake," Ellie mutters under her breath, drying her hands on a kitchen towel and heading toward the door.

She'd told Robert to waylay her daughter when Phillip first arrived, not to let Annabelle ambush him at the door. She loved her youngest daughter to bits but she was perhaps the bluntest and boldest of her three children, the difficult middle child. Nothing Eloise Coulson couldn't handle of course, but she suspected Anna might be a little much for Clint right off the bat, and from the tone of her son's text messages there was something not-quite-right going on. 

Call it a mother's intuition, but she was relieved to have them here, arrived at last after having missed their flight,safe under her roof. 

She just hopes Annabelle's outburst hasn't set Clint back on his heels, back to that very first shy, hesitant young man she'd met. 

Her hopes are quickly dashed. 

He looks positively awful. 

Phillip is red-cheeked and glaring and hissing at his sister under his breath and Annabelle has her feet set and her arms crossed and they're already going at it, but Clint is hanging back, still on the porch while the door is being held open, letting the chill November air into her home. His head is ducked but she can still see his eyes, huge and terrified and darting left and right, and oh the poor thing he's absolutely panicking. Pale, noticeable thinner, there were dark circles under those eyes, and the man she'd seen such stillness in was twitching and trembling like he was coming down off of something. 

He probably was. 

"Oh sweetheart," she murmurs sadly, stepping right past her son and reaching up to cup Clint's chin in her hand. "We have to stop meeting like this." 

Two spots of color appear high on the man's cheeks and he can't meet her eyes, and she thinks she hears him mumble an apology, which nearly breaks her heart. Pressing her fingers to his forehead she's shocked by how warm he is, and immediately takes his arm to tug him gently inside. He actually resists at first and she pauses, surprised, but the way Phillip's mouth snaps shut on a childish insult and he steps back out of the way says multitudes. 

She's learned to read her son quite well over the years, and she can see the entire story written on his face now. The way Phillip is standing, attempting to loom over his older sister and angling himself between the two, says that the younger man is hurt, vulnerable, and Phillip in part feels responsible. 

Silly, stubborn boy. 

Shaking her head, she tutted quietly before pulling Clint along into the house behind her. 

"What has my son done to you?" she demands as she bustles him into the kitchen, ignoring both her offspring and focusing on the young man who needs her attention most. Taking the stack of cardboard boxes from his hands, ones he doesn't even seem to realize he's holding, she shoos him onto a stool at the island, certain that he's about to topple over. He looks like he's been hit by a truck, or perhaps just an epiphany, but blinks at her owlishly like her question has made it through the fog. 

"What?" he asks, lost but fighting. "No, he... he wasn't even on mission. Wasn't his fault..." 

"Yes it was," Phillip argues, stepping into the kitchen, a quiet, wounded expression on his face when Clint's shoulders tighten up and he turns away. "I never should have let Jimenez pull you for that op." 

Clint swallows, won't look at him, but concedes one short nod of his head. 

"It won't happen again." 

"I'm _fine_ ," Clint insists, his voice sharp against Phillip's quiet, gentle murmur. Flinching, he licks his lips and offers her an apologetic look before repeating the lie in a softer, more steady tone. "I'm fine." 

Ellie scoffs, tutts. 

He most certainly is not. 

"You're running a bit of a fever sweetheart," she says instead, fetching down a mug and a tea bag, filling it with hot water from the kettle on the stove. Grabbing a spoon and the honey jar, she carries the lot to the island and puts it down to cup his cheek in her hand. "And those famous Hawkeyes are all blue." 

It's true – his pupils have constricted to pinpricks – but he blushes shyly under her attentions and dips his head, low enough that she can cast her son a glare over top his head without getting caught. Phillip blushes, his hands moving at his sides, and she's surprised he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. 

Well. 

What on earth? 

"Drink up dear," she says, pushing the cup closer until Clint wraps his hands around it. "Phillip, go find Clint one of your old sweaters; he must be freezing." 

"Doesn't have to do that, 'm all right," Clint mumbles, but Phillip has already shouldered past Annabelle and headed for his old bedroom. 

"Nonsense," she says breezily, laying her hand on his shoulder before going back to the sink where she's finishing up the dishes from a late lunch. "It's no trouble, and I couldn't bear to stand here watching you shiver like that. Best to sweat it out anyway, whatever you're on." 

"Dunno," he shrugs shamefacedly, one hand wrapping tight around his inner elbow. "Bad guys weren't really interested in telling me all about it." 

Ellie's heart squeezes in her chest – she knows the risks of the work that he and her son do every day but it still prickles, still puts fear and worry and sympathy in her heart. Abandoning her work, she goes back to his side, wraps an arm around the back of his head and pulls him in to press a kiss to his temple. 

"Don't worry sweetheart," she says quietly, touched when Clint turns his face into the curve of her shoulder and sucks in a shuddery breath. "We'll look after you. I wasn't a medic for nothing; keep you warm and rested and well fed and you'll be alright." 

"Medical said you should be clear of it by tomorrow afternoon at the latest," Phillip says, reappearing from the back hall having caught the tail end of the conversation, kneading a fold of heavy black fabric in his hands. He's hesitant when he holds it out, offers it, and Clint is just as hesitant when he accepts, careful not to let their fingers brush, but Ellie recognizes that sweater. 

It's his old Army hoodie, black with his family name printed across the shoulders in thick gold letters, one he loves dearly and the only one he's refused to lend to either of his sisters over the years. 

It's a grand gesture, though she doubts either of the two men recognize it as such. 

Annabelle does, eyes flashing as she opens her mouth to say something insensitive, so Ellie is quick to send her back out to the garage where she had been helping her father retrieve the extra dining chairs and the leaf for the center of the table. 

"You're in the thick of it now, aren't you darling?" she commiserates, answered by the way Clint shivers and tugs the hoodie on over his long-sleeved henley, the fabric stretched tight over his shoulders. He seems fascinated for a moment by the Rangers logo emblazoned across his chest, fingers tracing it in awe for all of a second before they dropped back to the edge of the table. "Hungry?" 

Clint shakes his head. 

"Nauseas," he mumbles miserably, and Ellie pushes his teacup closer. 

"Peppermint," she explains, "It will help settle your stomach. All for the best anyway," she says breezily, going back to the sink to finish clearing - the turkey needs a place to finish thawing overnight. "You'll have appetite enough tomorrow to keep up with the rest." 

"She makes enough to feed an army," Phillip says, his voice still low and hesitant. "Even if it's only ever just family." 

"Yes, and you'll have to excuse my daughter Clint," she says. "She can be a bit... straightforward." 

A glance over her shoulder gives her a view of two very pink-cheeked boys, refusing to look at each other, and in her head, she sighs. 

"Be brave and you'll be fine," she advises. "Her bark is worse than her bite." 

"I thought she was coming tomorrow morning," Phillip scowls, and she sends a sharp look over her shoulder, only just stopping herself from scolding him because at least this time there's a decent reason behind their frequent sibling spats. 

"She got in early," she explains, then, testing the air, "You two will have to bunk up this time; I hope you don't mind Clint." 

"It's fine," Phil jumps in immediately, his shoulders drooping. "I can... take the couch." 

Beside him Clint stiffens against a flinch and stills himself as much as possible, like he's trying not to be seen, but his knuckles are white against the edge of the table and his jaw is tight. There's anger there, sudden and hot and flashing in his eyes and he's holding himself back, hurt around the edges of his mouth. 

Oh what _has_ that foolish boy of hers done? 

"Phillip, go help your father," she says, suddenly a bit disappointed and a bit fed up with her son, the brave and clever spy. 

He blinks at her, surprised by her tone, flicking a glance at his blonde archer that's all worry and guilt and wanting, but he goes, and she watches him go until the garage door closes behind him. 

Pulling out a stool, she sits down beside the young man who's trembling like a leaf and takes his icy hands between her own, brushing her thumb over bruised and battered knuckles. 

"Now sweetheart," she murmurs quietly, waiting for him to lift his eyes and meet her gaze. "Tell me all about it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to have the Thanksgiving chapters up by Thanksgiving, but you know. RL. Thanksgiving. Turkey naps. It just wasn't happening. So its a tad late. Still good tho right? ;)

He doesn't tell her. 

Not all of it anyway, not right away. 

It's hard to put into words, to share. Makes him feel vulnerable, which is more than a little stupid. Shouldn't hurt so much, not him, not a badass agent of SHIELD, the world's greatest marksman. 

Forget all of that and there's still the fact that she's Coulson's _mom._

He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, and telling her what an absolute bastard her son's been doesn't really seem like the polite thing to do. 

That and... 

"I don't know what I did wrong," he mumbles dully, staring straight ahead at the microwave above the Coulsons' stove, shivering and clutching at his forearms as the cold sweeps through him. "Don't know what changed..." 

"Oh sweetheart," Ellie sighs, getting to her feet and brushing her hand through his hair. Crossing to the pantry she ducked inside, called back over her shoulder. "If I know my son, and I do, it wasn't anything you did. It's himself he's really fighting with." 

Clint frowns as she emerges with a plastic bag of potatoes in her hands, shakes his head. 

"That doesn't make sense," he disagrees flatly, and suddenly he doesn't care. 

His head hurts, and it's too much to try to figure out, and he's still angry and upset but the drugs are dragging on him, making it hard to hold on to. 

"He talks about you, you know," Ellie says casually, finding a large mixing bowl and rifling through a drawer. Clint feels his frown deepen and sees her flick him a small, secret sort of smile. "Long before he brought you home. I've been waiting years to meet you Clint." 

"Why?" 

Ellie pauses, looks straight at him, her head tilted and that same, soft smile on her face. 

"Because no one has ever made my son laugh the way you do," she explains. "Smile the way you do." 

That's... 

That's not... 

"We're friends," Clint backpedals, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. "At least I thought..." 

"Of course you are," she nods, going back to her drawer and coming up with a blue handled potato peeler. "No matter what he's done, you're important to him Clint. My son can be silly and self-sabotaging when he puts his mind to it, but that hasn't changed." 

Clint shudders, bites down on his lip hard so he doesn't whine. 

"That face is far too sweet to be so long," he hears Ellie say, his head and his heart aching. 

"I'm ok," he chokes, his voice hoarse. "Can I... can I help? Do something? Anything? Just... I need something to keep my hands busy." 

Ellie grins, puts on a cheery front and somehow it doesn't feel forced like it should. 

"Well if it's work you're looking for, you'll find plenty of it around here," she says, pushing the potatoes toward him and slapping the peeler into his hand. "I should probably warn you sweetie, you'll be everyone's hero tomorrow. Pie is the one thing I can't do." 

Clint blushes and ducks his head, suddenly unbearably warm under her attentions. This is what he wanted, what had nearly broken his heart these last few months. He'd gotten a taste of family the last time he was here, a taste of _Phil's_ family, a glimpse of everything he'd ever wanted. To have it all ripped away and more, to lose the friendship he'd had even before this...

It still hurts.

His hands shake and he tightens his grip, pushes away the pain.

Coulson had promised to explain, to... to apologize, and Clint can't help but hope there's a reason, that they could maybe get back to where they'd been. 

If that means letting go of his anger then he'll do it, but not until he knows why. 

Pushing it all aside, locking it up in a box with everything else he'd rather bury, Clint gets busy, sitting at the counter peeling his way through a mountain of spuds while Ellie chatters happily about who will be coming to dinner. He's looking forward to seeing Beth and Derek again, the kids and Lucky too. He gets another apology for Annabelle and is promised her bark is worse than her bite, to be protected from her if he wishes. He laughs a little at that but she does too, so he thinks it's ok, even if Phil's punk-rock sister does make him a little nervous. There's a paternal aunt coming, and a cousin, and two family friends who are essentially godparents to Phil and his sisters, and all in all it sounds like a big, chaotic, messy assembly, and it seems Ellie couldn't be happier.

Clint, well, Clint's terrified.

Even if he's slowly gotten comfortable with Ellie it's still Phil's family, it's still unfamiliar and rife with opportunity to mess up. Not to mention he's still half-high on some unknown opiate, and on the outs with the guy who's basically his permission slip to be here.

He feels kinda like a plus-one that's shown up to a wedding without the actual invitee.

Awkward.

Still, Ellie's happy he's here even if Phil's not, and he still can't get over that. His brain's not moving fast enough to parse all that out, to decide what that might mean. He doesn't know if he wants to figure it out, not right now, not like this.

Doesn't seem fair.

He's confused and hurting and still a little wobbly, disoriented and off his balance from the drug when Phil comes back in from the garage, carrying two armloads of assorted chairs while his father and sister clatter along behind him with an extra leaf for the middle of the dining table. He jumps, barely keeps back a flinch, but his shoulders absolutely stiffen and Phil absolutely notices. He looks so hang-dog, sighs so forlornly that Clint almost opens his mouth and apologizes on instinct, and Ellie must see it because she gives her son a look more pointed than some of Clint's arrow tips.

"There's a list and some money there on the counter," she points, her hands dripping where she's been rinsing Clint's potatoes in the sink. "Take your sister with you."

"Waiting till the last minute again mother?" he says, a little too sweetly for Clint's comfort, but Ellie just rolls her eyes and waves him away, answering just as cooly.

"You know me dear, always forgetting something."

Phil humphs, scowls, casts Clint one long, worried look and grabs his sister by the elbow, dragging her out the front door behind him.

"Don’t worry."

Clint jumps, blinks himself out of the stupor he'd gotten stuck in, staring at the door. Ellie's drying her hands, coming back to him with a chef's knife, a cutting board, and a deep pot filled with water.

"If anyone can make Phillip see sense it's Annabelle. They may be at each other's throats half the time, but they've always seemed to have a way of balancing each other out."

"Never wanted to throw him off," Clint mumbles before he even realizes that's how he feels.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Ellie scoffs, flicking her hand dismissively. "He's being silly, you mark my words. Stoic. He never did learn to open his mouth and talk when it matters most."

"Love the way he talks to me."

Shit.

Hadn't meant to say that either.

Clint's cheeks burn and Ellie's looking at him like she might cry and that doesn't help at all, so he jerks his chin toward the cutting board and clears his throat.

"Need any more help?"

"If you'd like," she replies, sounding a little sniffly.

"Uniform one inch cube?" 

Ellie giggles, a little sharp with surprise.

"A rough chop is fine, thanks. Into the pot, and they'll be ready to boil and mash tomorrow."

Glancing at the clock, she whisks his empty tea cup away, starts fixing him another.

"Finish that up," she instructs gently, "And then I want you off to bed. If my son hasn't been taking care of you, you can be sure I will."

**AVAVA**

"So," Annabelle huffed, her arms crossed and a petulant pout to rival any spoiled middle child's on her face, "What'd you do to piss your boyfriend off?"

"Shut up," Phil snarls under his breath, tossing a carton of heavy whipping cream into the plastic basket he's hooked over his elbow. 

Despite her protests, his mother isn't forgetful. She does this every major holiday - 'accidentally' forgets a few key ingredients so that she has an excuse to send the most troublesome family members out from underfoot. That almost always includes the youngest of his two older sisters, but doesn't always include him. He'd known as soon as she tugged Clint into the kitchen that he was going to be in the dog-house this visit, but he didn't think it would be this bad. It makes him wonder what Clint had told her while he was out in the garage rafters hauling down folding chairs – not because he begrudges him the friendly ear, but because he's jealous of the information. 

He wishes he were more certain of where his head was at, wishes he knew what his sister could see. 

As much as he and Annabelle quarrel and poke at each other's last nerve, she's good at reading people maybe even better than he is. 

"We're not dating," he mutters as they wander up the next aisle heading for the produce. 

"Ah." 

"Ah what?" he demands, pausing in the middle of the spice aisle to turn and glare at her. 

"Ah what, _what_?" she snips right back, flicking her blue hair over her shoulders with a sharp jerk of her chin. "You answered my question, ergo: ah." 

"I didn't..." 

"Oh come on Phil," she huffs, stepping around him with a hard roll of her eyes. "I mean, I know you're pretty dense sometimes, but even my baby brother isn't _that_ stupid." 

Phil just stands there, stares, feels absolutely dumbstruck because he can understand it coming from his mother and from Beth, but from _Annabelle_... 

That's... 

That's different, that... 

"I don't..." 

"You're in _love_ with him you idiot," she accuses. "Christ Phil, really? We've been listening to you yammer about this guy for years. You've _never_ brought a boyfriend home, or a girlfriend, or a colleague. You've never _talked_..." 

Frowning, her stance eases, her hands swinging down to her sides. 

"Never seen you like this Phil," she says. "You're kind of a mess. Did... did you really not _know_?" 

"I.." he stammers, his heart pounding, and suddenly yes, yes he did know. 

He can't ignore it or avoid it anymore, can't put in a box and put it away. 

He's in love with Clint Barton, and he's risked everything trying to convince himself that it's not worth taking the chance. 

"I'm in love with Clint Barton," he whispers, and he can feel the words against his own skin like pelting rain, cold and stinging as the sentiment echoes around inside his chest. "Annabelle, I..." 

Sighing the sigh of the put-upon, Annabelle rolls her eyes and drags him in for a short, hard hug, no less meaningless for how begrudging it is. 

"You know he loves you too right?" 

"Wait, _what_?" 

"Oh for god's sake," she muttered, letting him go and giving him a little shove in the chest. "Why do you think he's upset you moron? You hurt his feelings. He was just a little embarrassed when I called him your boyfriend until you started denying it so hard." 

"He..." 

"Nu-uh," she growls, shaking her head and starting away down the aisle again. "I'm not helping anymore. Come on, mom wants the parsley for the stuffing and you know she always does that the night before." 

Phil knows for sure that she's fed up with him when she turns the corner and leaves him there in the aisle, abandoning him to his epiphanies and the absolute certainty that things can never be the same again. His entire world is rewriting itself right there in the middle of the corner grocer and he suddenly feels shaky and breathless. 

But... 

It's Clint isn't it? 

Just Clint. 

Really, what is there that the two of them haven't faced already?

If they can just survive this, if he can just explain himself, apologize...

Very suddenly Phil can't get home fast enough, and he actually trots as he skids around the end of the aisle, grabbing his protesting sister by the elbow and dragging her through the rest of the shopping. He practically throws the bills at the poor cashier and pushes the speed limit getting home, only to stall out on the front step before he gets through the front door. Annabelle bounces off him with a yip as he pulls up short, curses him under her breath and mutters threats before reaching around to open the door and shove him through it. She's told him he needs to grow a pair more than once before but it's never rung more true than it does now. Swallowing, straightening his shoulders, he hikes the grocery bags up in his hands and pushes on into the kitchen, only to be disappointed when he finds his parents there alone. 

"Where's Clint?" he asks, lifting the bags onto the island and pushing them toward his father, who's sipping a mug of coffee despite the fact that darkness has fallen and it's going on seven o'clock. 

"I sent him off to bed," his mother replies, her hands busy inside a massive pan of stale bread, crumbling it into small pieces. "He's still not feeling well." 

"Is he ok?" 

"He will be," she says, cleaning her fingers with a damp towel. "Those drugs have really done a number on him, poor thing." 

Phil feels his cheeks heat, ducks his head. 

"And me, too." 

"I didn't say that," she sniffed, rifling through the bags he's brought. "He didn't tell me what happened, just that he isn't sure what he did wrong." 

"What _he_ di..." 

Phil heaves a sigh, leans over and sets his elbows on the counter hanging his head in his hands. 

"Damn it Clint." 

A towel snaps sharply against his hip and he lifts his head to glare, finds his mother glaring right back. 

"Don't you dare blame that boy Phillip Jareth Coulson," she warns and Phil groans, the use of his middle name never a good thing. 

"I _don't_ ," he insists, looking to his father for a little support, but the man just snorts into his coffee mug and shakes his head. "I _told_ him that." 

"Go tell him again." 

It's so easy, so off the cuff that it takes him aback for a moment. His mother has always had a way of cutting through his bullshit, and it's just so simple it all seems silly. Phil stands up, huffs a disbelieving laugh before rounding the island and kissing his mother's cheek. 

"You give the best advice," he murmurs, pulling her into a hug. "That easy huh?" 

"You'll be fine." 

That pulls another chuckle out of him but there's genuine relief there too. His mother might like Clint, might even love him already, but he's her son and she's never sent him into the fire before. If she's sending him to Clint with his heart in his hands, she must know that at the very least Clint won't completely shred it. 

At least he hopes so. 

After bidding a quiet good night to both his parents he slips down the hallway and changes into a pair of flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt, brushes his teeth and takes a steeling breath. Stupid, that he's more afraid of this than anything he's ever been afraid of in his life, him, who's stood down roomfuls of hostiles, bombs and monsters and the end of the world. This is Clint, just Clint, sweet, perfect Clint who he knows just as well as he knows himself. 

The man's in bed under the quilt already, on the left hand side so that when he starfishes out on his belly his dominant hand will be hanging over the edge. He's on his side, facing away from the door, but he doesn't so much as flinch when Phil steps inside, closes the door and slips into bed beside him. He doesn't turn, doesn't look over his shoulder, but Phil knows his breathing patterns, knows the curve on his spine and the laxness of his muscles in sleep and knows that he's still awake. They're silent in the dark for long moments and Phil can't decide if this is Clint telling him he doesn't want to talk or giving him an opening, but eventually he comes to the conclusion that it doesn't matter. 

It can't wait anymore. 

"You scare me sometimes," he says at last, breathing his confession into the dark. "And I don't scare easy." 

Clint tenses and this time he can't stop himself from touching, from gentling the man he's hurting so much with poor words and poor choices. Pressing his fingertips to the small of Clint's back, he runs them slowly up his spine, until the flat of his palm is resting between the man's shoulder blades, the heat of his body seeping through his thin cotton t-shirt as he presses firmly against his back. 

"The last time you were here," he tries, his throat tight and the emotions sitting hot and hard beneath his breastbone. "The last time you were here you fit so perfectly. My mom's loved you from that very first day. I could see it, how easy it would be for you to... to become _family_." 

Beneath his hand he feels Clint flinch, knows how sharp that thought must be, how deep it cuts. 

"Scared me," he murmurs. "I guess I... I didn't want to be left behind." 

He's not saying it right, he knows he's not, because Clint's shoulders are all knots and tense, singing wire beneath his hand and suddenly everything comes spilling out of him like water. 

"I like you. More than I probably should, without knowing how you feel in return, but I've never been able to stop myself with you. It's _always_ been you Clint, all these years, ever since you came to me, and I know it's not fair and I know it's not right because you _are_ my asset, but you're _important_ Clint. You _matter_." 

Phil pauses, heaves a sigh trying to catch his breath, his thumb sweeping across the ridge of muscle along Clint's spine. 

"I never should have pulled back from you the way I did this summer," he says quietly. "That was wrong. I was the one who couldn't handle how I felt, I was the one who panicked. I didn't... I didn't want to be one more man you couldn't trust Clint. I never wanted to be that. I took that choice away from you because I was afraid of what I wanted, _how much_ I wanted. I didn't want you to feel pressured, and... and maybe I didn't want to risk..." 

Clint hasn't spoken, hasn't turned, and Phil feels his heart sink. 

When he finally works around the rock in his throat and speaks again, his voice is hoarse and broken. 

"I didn't want to risk losing you. It was selfish and unfair and I'm so sorry Clint. I never meant to make you think I didn't..." 

Phil swallows the next words down hard Clint moves so fast and sharp, reaching back and grabbing him firmly by the wrist. For half a second he thinks he's about to be thrown off, that Clint's going to hit him or hiss at him and head for the couch, or hell back to New York, but instead, before he can yelp or cower or apologize Clint is pulling his arm around him, tugging until he's snugged back against Phil's chest and his arm is slung around his ribs. 

"Shut up," he mutters, his voice tight as he shudders hard and wiggles even further into Phil's startled embrace. "I'm freezing." 

Phil is stunned, shocked, nervous, but Clint settles right down, his fingers still laced with Phil's and his eyes squeezed tight shut. 

"Ok," he breathes, licking his lips, heart still pounding against the walls of his chest. There's a thousand questions bumping around inside his head, and Clint's still a little stiff in his arms, but somehow this is better, somehow safer and better and surer even though it's no such thing. "Ok." 

"I'm still mad at you," Clint mumbles as Phil scooches down the bed behind him, gets his pillow knocked into shape and eases hesitantly into classic big-spoon. 

"I don't blame you," Phil whispers against the nape of his neck. "I'm still mad at me too." 

"Good. Y' should be." 

Huffing, Clint wriggles closer, one hell of a criss-crossed signal even though Phil knows absolutely that the archer is being perfectly serious and truthful. 

"We'll talk more tomorrow," he says, his tone carefully in check, but he's still holding Phil close in the dark. "Just... don't let go."


	14. Chapter 14

Clint doesn't fall asleep for a long time. 

He's exhausted from the havoc the drugs and subsequent withdrawals have wrought on his system, wishes he could nod off, but his brain won't shut down. 

In fact it's being awfully damn loud. 

Phil falls asleep only about an hour after Clint's made his demands, cuddled up and holding him close. He's a long line of solid muscle behind him, spooning Clint close from the knees up, and he's practically dying in the man's embrace, wallowing in it. They've shared beds before but never like this, not even that time in Alaska when Clint had fallen through the ice and Phil had done his level best to keep him from frostbite and hypothermia until extraction arrive. 

This, this is different. 

He's a blaze of heat against Clint's cold, clammy skin, and it's _relief_ being held by him, a quiet moment after the intense pain that's been firing on his nerve endings since the needle pricked his elbow. 

It shouldn't work like that, he knows it. 

When Phil had confronted him in the common kitchens, he'd been so _angry,_ and it had been cut through completely by a few words, a look of stunned awe. 

_Because you matter._

He hadn't known what it meant, still doesn't really. 

He hadn't spoken to Phil the whole way to Oregon, and then his mother had met them at the door and collected him into her arms and for just a little bit the hurt had gone away. The hurt of being lied to, of being pushed away, of seeing Phil recoil when his sister had called Clint 'the boyfriend.' 

It had felt like an insult, even though it was the thing he maybe wanted most in the world and he'd shut down a little after that. Ellie, god bless her, had immediately notice something wasn't quite right and done quite probably the best thing she could have done, stuffed him into one of _Phil's_ hoodies and sent the man himself away. She didn't press him, didn't try to drag the story out of him like so many people tried to do, instead just listened when he talked and gave him something to do with his hands, even though they'd been shaking like anything. 

She's good – it's no wonder where Phil gets it. 

He'd opened up easier for her than he ever has for anyone, even Nat. 

But then, he's never really had a mum has he? 

But she's not his, and that's the whole problem isn't it? 

He's not as stupid as he likes to act – he figured it out. 

One slip of the tongue, one maternal nickname and bam! 

Everything changes. 

The hero comment didn't do it, the impromptu pool party didn't do it, the cuddling on the couch didn't do it... 

He's not stupid. 

He's not pathetic either though, which is why he went to bed angry. He might be pining over the man, might be ass over teakettle in love, but he's got a little self-preservation instinct left. Hard to leave behind when you grow up the way he did. If there's anything he's learned these past few months it's that he can't let Phil walk all over him – he'll end up going mad and offing himself like Sylvia Plath if he does. 

So he'd gone to bed mad, lights off, back to the door, and he hadn't said a word, hadn't asked for or encouraged the explanation or the apology he had coming. 

Then Phil crawls into bed behind him and makes a confession instead, his hand hot and firm and soothing between his shoulder blades and it's like nothing has changed at all between them. They're still Clint and Phil, and he's still taking care of him, and caring about him while Clint stands there silently with his heart in his hands, offered up like a sacrifice while all the words he wants to stay stick in his throat like a rock. 

But it's different now, he can feel it. 

Phil talks, pours words out quietly in the dark and turns the world inside out, leaving Clint floating over an abyss with nothing beneath his feet but empty space. He talks about trust and wanting and fear, and Clint's heart is swelling in his chest fit to burst or break he isn't sure which. He thinks he knows what Phil's trying to say, maybe, but he also knows that's exactly what he wants to hear, and he learned a long time ago that he can't trust his own ears. He'd thought he could trust Phil though, right up until the man had written him off, but... but he'd tried to explain that to. He'd tried to... to be a good man, a man Clint could rely on, a man that was safe after everything he'd been through and... and maybe a part of it is his fault too. 

He's not blameless here. 

He's never told Phil how he feels, never come right out and said anything. He flirts, yes, but he flirts with everyone, even if it means more when he's flirting with Phil. 

He can see how that causes a problem, how any feelings on Phil's side might have looked... pushy. 

So he'd grabbed the man's arm, in part to assure him that where this was going, where he _thinks_ it's going is not unwelcome, not one-sided, but also in part to keep him close, to make sure he doesn't run again.

Clint... Clint couldn't handle that a second time. 

He's still mad, but he's scared too, so he grabs on, holds tight. 

They're stiff and awkward and unsure with each other in the bed, in a way they haven't been in years, not since Clint was a new recruit, young and skittish and wary. Eventually though, eventually it's like strings being cut and they sag against each other, all the tension gone as bodies go soft and pliant. They curl toward each other and Phil tightens his arm around Clint's waist, breathes shakily against the nape of his neck like a sigh and it's _relief._

He's still mad. 

But it doesn't hurt as much. 

Eventually Clint nods off and suffers restless sleep, wakes up again just as the sun is beginning to show through the curtains of Phil's childhood bedroom. The older man is on his back, one arm thrown up over his head in unfairly peaceful sleep and Clint is curled up against his side like an octopus, head pillowed on the older man's chest, heart thumping along steadily beneath his ear like some kind of soothing drum cadence. He's warm and loose, his joints only just a little achey now, like they are after a good, long workout instead of a hangover, even if he does have the beginnings of a migraine throbbing at the base of his skull. 

Caffeine withdrawals, sure, after days without... 

Maybe he's just making excuses. 

Slipping out of the bed as stealthily as he possibly can, Clint stumbles down the hallway to the bathroom and slips inside, taking the time to scrub his teeth and splash icy water on his face before re-emerging, all the better to feel halfway human again. He'd doubled up on his socks before going to bed, had dressed in a pair of SHIELD-issue sweats and was still clinging to Phil's hoodie like a kid clinging to a teddy bear, but the warmth of the bed and from Phil is slowly seeping out of his clothes, leaving him chilled. 

Tip-toeing through the silent house, he's surprised to find the light over the stove casting a warm glow around the kitchen and a pot of coffee still percolating on the counter. A quiet tapping sound draws his attention – Ellie Coulson is sitting on the back porch with a mug in her hand, wrapped in a thick housecoat and fluffy boots, waving at him through the french doors. Clint smiles, waves back, hesitates before making up his mind. Pouring himself his own mug – he's allowed to now, according to medical – he finds his coat and his boots in the entryway and joins. 

"Good morning," she smiles when he sits down beside her, breath frosting in the air. 

It's not frigid yet but it's pretty damn bracing, a thin layer of silver ice coating the grass and glittering bright as the sun slowly drags itself up above the trees of the Coulson's backyard. 

"Morning," he replies, his voice hoarser than he means it to be, expects it to be. 

Ellie just tucks herself in a little closer to his side. They're quiet for a bit while Clint sips his coffee, savors the hot, rich bitterness of it after being denied the brew since before his mission started. It's oddly calming to sit next to Phil's mom, more so than it was the day before, and he wonders if it's because they'd come to the beginning of an understanding between them the night before, or if it's just Ellie herself. Either way he appreciates it, the few moments of quiet to gather his thoughts, to gather himself. The morning is crisp and bright and feels a little bit like hope, and he's glad she's there to share it with him, to drive it. 

"Thank you." 

He hadn't meant to say that either, surprises himself, but given the day it seems appropriate, seems... ok. 

"Made up then?" she asks, watching him over the rim of her mug. 

"Made a start," he shrugs. He doesn't want to think about how far they have to go, doesn't want to think about the fact that this could still be wrong, that he hasn't gotten a guarantee on anything or even a moment of crystal clarity. "That's what matters right?" 

"Not quite that simple," Ellie replies, and he can't hate her for being honest. "But yes. A start is good." 

"It's all I've got," he breathes. "It's gonna have to be." 

It's himself he's trying to convince, he knows that, and what he means to be a scoff comes out more like a miserable sob beneath his breath. 

"Oh sweetheart," Ellie murmurs, turning on the picnic bench beside him and cupping his cheek in her hand, warm from where she's been holding her mug and soft and gentle as silk. "You've got so much more than that. You _love_ him." 

Clint hiccoughs a laugh, a high, thready sound as he struggles to push enough air through his chest, suddenly tight and aching. 

"That obvious?" he asks, voice wobbling, looking up at the sky that's lightening to a pale, bright blue, blinking back a hot, stinging sensation. 

"I _am_ his mother." 

Clint huffs. 

"You're _good_ ," he corrects. "I didn't know for... hell, the longest. He still doesn't know, not for sure. Never told him." 

"Why not?" 

Clint laughs, bitter and self-deprecating, and it's stupid because he's better than this, worked to be better than this. 

"Lots of reasons," he mutters. He can't look at her as he confesses his sins, his gaze roaming the yard restlessly instead. "He's my boss; puts him in a tough spot. Self-confidence is shot to shit. I might not have him on a pedestal but I still think he deserves better. And hell, even if I did tell him straight, he might not..." 

Clint swallows hard. 

"He's _Phil Coulson_ ," he murmurs, trying to explain his fears to her and himself. "He knows a little, he _has_ to." 

Sighing, he feels his shoulders drop, his head hang. 

" 'S just better to have something than nothing you know?" 

"You think you could lose him, by letting him know you love him?" 

"Almost did," he says, finishing the last of his coffee in one big, too-hot gulp and getting to his feet. "All or nothing... it's not worth it. Rather take what I can get, hold it close. Does that make me a coward?" 

"No, just scared," Ellie murmurs, standing and putting her hand on his arm. "And human. Emotions like that, _fear_... It just means that it matters. That it's important." 

She understands. 

It's strange and it hurts and at the same time it makes perfect sense, makes him want to cry. She's Coulson's _mom,_ of course she gets it, even when he doesn't. How else do you get a strong, competent, unmitigated badass? You don't make those in a lab, or grab them off a UFO, no matter what the rumor mill at SHIELD says. 

Surging forward, Clint wraps the woman up in his arms, holds her close and buries his face in the curve of her shoulder. He thinks he surprises her – she's stiff for the ghost of a moment – but then she's hugging him right back and it's quite possibly the best, most perfect hug he's ever had, even over Phil, even over Nat. It's warm and it's soft and it's strong, and he knows he'll remember this moment for the rest of his life, no matter what happens. 

"Thank you," he whispers, choked up and clutching tight as he dares, and he can feel her arms around his waist, her small hands patting his back. 

"You are so welcome sweetie," she murmurs back, kissing his cheek when he finally lets her go. "And if it makes you feel better..." 

Clint waits, raises his eyebrows when she hesitates, rolls her lips, then glances over his shoulder and smiles knowingly. 

"If it makes you feel better," she repeats, patting him on the chest, "I don't think you need to worry."

**AVAVA**

Phil panics when he wakes up in bed alone, the sheets cold beside him. At first he doesn't even remember the night before, an odd hole in his memory where his apology should be, just a general feeling of unease sitting heavy in his chest. Then the words come back to him, the messy muddle of an attempted explanation, and he's all the more confused for it.

Clint was mad, still mad, and he doesn't blame the man for it but that's all he'd really said. 

He'd pulled Phil close, kept him close until Phil had fallen asleep, but here, now, with the morning light slowly creeping in through the curtains, Clint's gone and he doesn't know where. He could be in the bathroom or he could be back in New York, and it's the latter thought that scares him. He knows he didn't do the best job last night, didn't say all the things he really needed to say (or hear the things he needed to hear to be honest), and he desperately needs the chance to do that. 

But he'd said they'd talk today, he'd said that. 

He hadn't pushed Phil away. 

Eyes closed, he blows out a long, slow breath and centers himself, dismisses all the old adages running through his head. 

_Seize the day, face your fears, honesty is the best policy..._

Nonsense. 

Paltry comfort in the face of who he is, what he needs to do. 

Clint means more to him than... than _anything_ , and now that he finally knows that, admits it to himself, there's only the one thing to do. 

Rolling out of bed, he makes it up quickly, neat hospital corners before getting dressed, dark jeans and a warm, burgundy colored Henley; comfortable enough to survive dinner but nice enough for company. He wishes for a suit and feels guilty for it – he shouldn't want for armor with Clint. 

The archer is a beloved to be held up, not a dragon to be faced down. 

Doesn't mean he's not still nervous. 

Following the scent of coffee down the hallway, his tip-toes past Annabelle's door, well aware of her hatred for early mornings. He suspects his father is still in bed as well, but knows his mother well enough to expect her in the kitchen. He's surprised when he doesn't find her there but pours a cup anyway, heads for the living room to look out over the backyard as he sips. He nearly stumbles when he finds the missing two speaking on the porch, mouths moving silently as the glass blocks out their words. Unwilling to walk into their moment, he leans against the jamb, one hand in his pocket as he watches Clint hug his mother, a warmth filling him up from the inside out that has nothing to do with the coffee 

He loves him. 

He loves Clint Barton. 

It's such a simple, basic fact, so easy and welcome that he's shocked by the way it washes over him, quiet and calm and unintimidating, none of that old fear. 

It seems foolish now, the risks he took trying to make Clint's decisions for him. 

Over Clint's shoulder his mother meets his eye, smiles and touches Clint's chest as she murmurs something softly. The archer jolts, turns sharply and stares at him, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and Phil might've been nervous all over again if his mother hadn't patted his shoulder as she slipped by, given him a little push out the door. It's crisp and cold, not quite freezing, but he still takes the excuse to sit down a little closer to his agent than he might have before. Clint's eased back down onto the picnic bench and is staring out at the yard, hands clenched, fingers twisted together in his lap, but he doesn't pull away when Phil presses in close and knocks their knees together. 

Minutes pass in silence and Clint's waiting, he can feel it, but he can't seem to find the right words, is really just enjoying the quiet moment. Clint though, Clint's knee starts bouncing and Phil takes a risk, slides his hand down the man's thigh and stills him, feels the heat of his body through the cotton of his sweats. 

"How do you feel?" he asks, because the tremulous energy running through the sniper isn't typical of him, even for downtime, and while medical had said he should be fine by now, there was always the chance with an unknown drug that the symptoms would drag themselves out or reappear. 

" 'M all right," he replies before clearing his throat. "Steadier. Still got the chills but... better. A lot better." 

Phil hums noncomitally, sidles closer, tucks himself in against Clint's side, just to share his body heat of course, and even though Clint stays put he stiffens, his shoulders high and tight. It startles him a bit, suddenly makes him wonder, makes him doubt. Clint had said he was still mad but just how mad was he, and why? 

Surely not because Phil had confessed? 

Only because he _hadn't_. 

Right? 

"Um, yeah, so, I _am_ kinda freezing," Clint says suddenly, sharply, shoving to his feet when Phil lets the silence stretch too long. "So I'm gonna..." 

"I love you." 

Clint freezes and Phil feels his own eyes go wide, shocked that he'd just blurted it out like that. The blonde is staring at him like he's terrified and Phil's heart is pounding in his chest, the both of them unable to move or breathe or even think as the words hang heavy and loud in the air between them. Clint blinks, licks his lips, opens his mouth but Phil can't let him run from this, can't let _himself_ run from it, not anymore. 

"I love you," he says again, quietly, firmly as he rises slowly to his feet, putting his mug down on the picnic bench to free his hands, knowing he shouldn't touch but unable to stop himself. Stepping in close, he's not terribly concerned when Clint takes a single step back; just follows him until they're only inches apart and he can press the flat of his palm lightly to the archer's chest, gentle him the way he'd wanted to back in New York in that tiny communal kitchen. 

" _Years_ Clint," he murmurs intensely, staring at the Rangers log stretched across the archer's chest, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Been falling in love with you for _years_ , since Rotterdam, since _Marseilles_. It's a lot, I know it's a lot, and I know it's not fair and I..." 

"I love you." 

Phil chokes on his words, blinks, can't lift his eyes fast enough, but Clint's staring at him like he's never seen him before, brow furrowed and his mouth twisted, but he'd said it, Phil _heard him_ say it. Fireworks are going off, his heart swelling in his chest fit to burst even as warning bells start clanging in his head, but the relief, the sheer unimaginable joy rushing across his nerves nearly drowns it out. He doesn't realize he's swaying toward him, reaching for him until Clint's got his hand on _Phil's_ chest, reversing their positions and holding him back. 

"No. I mean, I don't..." Clint stammers, then he's scowling and throwing up his hands, taking three long strides away across the porch before turning sharply on his heel. 

"Damn it Phil!" he snarls. "Why'dja gotta go and say it now?: 

"Huh?" 

Clint scoffs at his eloquent response, crosses his arms, but it's nearer to hugging himself than shutting Phil out. 

"You're a real jackass, you know that?" he demands. "That's what this was all about wasn't it? You didn't want to..." 

"No," Phil denies, already sure he knows what Clint is going to say, even with his own thoughts and emotions spinning. "I've never regretted what I feel for you. Not that way. I _told you_ that." 

Clint's shoulders sink, like his strings have been cut, all the fight going out of him. 

"I know. I _know_ that," he mumbles, staring down at his boots. "And I know you wouldn't... you know. I get why you didn't... But hell Phil, all that time, if _you'd_ trusted _me_..." 

"I should have," he says, taking one slow, careful step forward. "I know I should have. If you let me I'll spend the rest of my life making up for it, for these last few months, but Clint... don't..." 

Clint lifts his head, stares, no doubt surprised by the unflappable Agent Coulson stumbling over his words. 

"Don't end this before we even get it started." 

Clint swallows hard, bites his lip, opens his mouth once or twice before he finally speaks, sounding miserable and sheepish. 

"I meant what I said," he mumbles. "I _do_... love you. Too much probably, since... ya know, you didn't even really say anything until today. But... I can't... Phil you..." 

"I hurt you," Phil murmurs, stepping in close for a second time and sliding his palm along Clint's jaw, cupping his cheek in his hand. The blonde refuses to lift his head but a single, hot tear rolls down his cheek and along Phil's finger as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I _left_ you. I'm not a perfect man Clint, not even a good man some days, but that will always be my biggest sin." 

"I can't..." Clint sobs before the words catch in his throat, and Phil slowly draws him into his arms, holds him close, horribly, awfully relieved when the man sags against him, tucks his face into the curve of Phil's throat and hugs him back. 

"It's ok," Phil hushes, rubbing up and down the man's spine soothingly. "That's ok Clint. That's fair. I know I let you down and I am so, so sorry. I wouldn't... I wouldn't jump into anything with me either, after that. But... if you wanted... I mean if slow was ok... I won't pressure you into anything I promise. That's what I didn't..." 

Sighing, Phil pulls back when Clint's arms loosen, lets him see the pain on his face. 

"You're still mad at me," he says, a little too forlornly. "I don't blame you. I'm not... resentful. Made a mess of this, trying to keep it all neat and contained, and... stupid." 

"Phil..." 

"I messed up," he confesses, heart in his throat. "That's on me. Whatever happens next Clint, I promise, it's going to be your decision. If you want to go back to SHIELD and what we were, like nothing's changed that’s... that's what we'll do. If you want to be transferred and never... shit, never see me again I can... I can do that too. But if... if you want to... to try this. If you think you can... forgive me, or... or _try_ to... we can take it slow. I'd _wait_ , Clint." 

"Why would you do that?" Clint whispers, in that painfully young voice that cuts Phil right at the knees. "Why would you wait, if... if I wasn't sure, if I..." 

"Because you're worth it," Phil insists, fisting his hands in Clint's sweatshirt and just... just holding on. "Because you _matter_. Because I love you, but you deserve some space after this. Some time. Because you deserve a chance to be mad and to make your own decisions, and because if there is _any_ chance after that that you... that you want to try... then I'm going to be there Clint." 

So much silence passes that Phil's heart actually falls, a miserable, aching dread settles into the pit of his stomach. He's just about to step away, find a place to collect himself when Clint's hands come up hesitantly, light on his biceps and hold on. 

"I think I do... need some time," he says, still hoarse and broken. "This isn't me punishing you, for what happened. But..." 

He doesn't have to explain – Phil gets it. 

He's very nearly broken this man, done the one thing to make him turn his back, yet here he is, still facing Phil, not running, not disappeared, and he's counting his god damn lucky stars that he's been given that much of a second chance. 

"I need to take this slow," he admits, sounding unbearably apologetic, and Phil can't help but take his face in his hands. "I don't want... I don’t want to risk this, but... but I can't..." 

"I know. I _get it_. I don't blame you Clint, not for protecting yourself. Even from me. So. We take it slow, yeah? We go inside and we eat a huge dinner, and I'll introduce you to all my crazy relatives as my asset, and you can be as mad as you need to for as long as you want, and I'll be there when you're ready." 

"This isn't real," Clint breathes, staring at him with huge, hopeful, frightened eyes, his face pale and his hands like ice. "Never thought... relationships don't happen like this." 

"What, with mutual pining and misunderstandings and fights?" Phil asks, a grin breaking through as suddenly things begin to seem far less bleak. "No, never." 

Clint chuckles, a nervous, hesitant sound, but it's still a laugh and Phil's going to count it as a win. 

"I want to kiss you," the archer says suddenly, and Phul blinks at the sudden segue. "I'm not... I can't, right now, not when we're fighting, but... I _want_ to. Just... thought you should know that." 

"Hey," he says with a wry grin, grabbing Clint by the nape of the neck and pulling him in for a short, tight hug. "Good enough for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, finally! I really hope you guys enjoy this - ugh, it takes these boys forever to get to this point. Still got a ways to go before things get back to 'normal' but they've finally made a start! Let me know what you think, and if you missed the update or haven't tried it yet - Pavlov just updated too! Much love <3<3<3


	15. Chapter 15

"He said he loves me Tash." 

His voice is wobbly, giddy, threatening to crack, but shit he feels like he could cry, dance, scream it to the world. 

Phil Coulson loves him. 

_Phil Coulson_ loves _him, Clinton Francis Barton,_ ex-carnie goof-off extraordinaire. 

"I'm happy for you Little Bird," Natasha says softly in Russian, and the fact that she doesn't mention the SHIELD betting pool tells him exactly how true that sentiment is. "For both of you." 

"Yeah," he sighs into the phone, flat on his back in Coulson's bed, staring up at the ceiling with his heart pounding happily in his chest. "Yeah, me too." 

He and Phil had lingered on the porch for a while after their confessions, sitting side by side on the picnic bench. They hadn't spoken anymore, just stayed quiet, shared space even though there was a little more room between them after. Eventually Ellie had called them inside and they'd wandered in for a light breakfast – fruit, yogurt, and fresh croissants – and she'd given Clint a soft, knowing smile over her section of the paper, hidden from her son who'd been bent over the crossword with his father. Annabelle had caught it, given him a suspicious look before rolling her eyes and taking her battered copy of The Bloody Chamber into the living room. He couldn't quite get a read on the sister but it didn't really matter – Mama Coulson liked him and Phil... 

Phil loved him. 

It was impossible to believe and it was Nat he ran to, when breakfast was over and the family headed off to complete their little list of tasks before dinner. She gives him time, is silent across the phone line as he settles his emotions, sorts his thoughts, and he needs that. It's nearly as good as having her beside him; steadfast, safe, happy for him even if she doesn't understand romantic love quite the way he does. He and Phil are the closest Nat will ever come to love, to family, and he knows for a fact that she'll be pleased the pining is finally over. 

He's just surprised she hasn't said 'I told you so' yet. 

"I didn't kiss him," he says suddenly, practically blurting it into the silence between them, and he feels like an ass but he knows why he says it. He needs the reassurance, needs someone other than Phil to tell him that really is ok, that he's not risking... well, everything by being stupid. "Told him I wanted to, but... I didn't." 

"Why not?" Natasha asks quietly, and Clint snorts, a sharp little pang echoing in his chest. 

"Cause 'm still mad," he mumbles, sounds like he's whining, pouting. "Cause he... fuck Tash, cause it _hurt._ It hurt when he cut me out." 

"Did he tell you why?" 

"Yeah. Yeah he told me. And he... he kinda had good reasons, I guess. Stupid reasons, but not... mean reasons you know?" 

"I do. That doesn't fix things." 

"No I know. He said that. Apologized, too." 

"So you actually talked." 

"Try not to sound _completely_ shocked," Clint grumbles, crossing one arm over his chest, the other holding the phone. "Yeah, we talked. He said it was ok, that I was still mad. He said... he said he'd wait." 

There's a pause, a silent pause that lasts far too long given that it's Natasha, and then she shocks _Clint,_ making a small sound of genuine surprise like he's actually impressed her for once. 

"Huh." 

"Huh what?" he asks, and tries to ignore how desperate he sounds, how panicked for reassurance. 

"I... I'm proud of you Clint." 

"You're... what?" 

"I'm proud of you," she says again, and there's more warmth and naked emotion in her voice than Clint has ever heard. "You finally fessed up, you actually had a conversation, and you made a demand for yourself. You took a risk to take care of _you;_ that... Little Bird I'm not sure that's something you've ever done before." 

Tears sting Clint's eyes and he sniffles, tries to find the breath that's suddenly been stolen from his lungs, but she keeps going. 

"You're being a responsible adult about this," she says quietly, with real warmth. "You're guarding you're heart and you're still getting..." 

"Nat?" he murmurs quietly, startled by how choked up she sounds, but then she's clearing her throat and back to the cool, sharp goddess he loves so much. 

"You're doing it right Clint," she says firmly. "I'm proud of you. If anyone deserves happiness in this world it's you and Coulson." 

"Not leaving you behind Nat," Clint murmurs, suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps that's what it is, what's prompted this sudden outpouring of emotion. 

"I know that," she huffs flippantly, and Clint grins, scrubbing tears from his cheeks. "Think I'd let you? Dummy." 

"Hey, I thought you just said I was doing good!" 

"You are," she promises, and that's it right there, what he was looking for, cause if anyone would tell him the painful, cutting truth to save him it was Nat. "I have to go – tell Coulson Happy Thanksgiving." 

"Yeah yeah, he'll be expecting the shovel talk." 

"He'd better be." 

She hangs up after that, no goodbye, but they never say goodbye. It's too final, like some kind of cosmic dare, and they know they love each other. For his part Clint feels more secure, feels a huge wave of relief sweep through him, and it takes a lot of the anger with it too. Knowing that he's allowed to be mad, that it's normal and makes sense and that Coulson, _Phil_ understands, it makes it easier to bear. Makes it easier to focus on the happiness, the surprise, the stunned, joyous disbelief. 

Phil Coulson loves him. 

He just wants to grab the man by the tie and kiss his stupid face. 

He's not going to, but god does he want to. 

Rolling out of the bed, he huffs a deep breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. He's going to go help Ellie in the kitchen – mostly to avoid Phil's sister Annabelle, who makes him anxious – so he leaves the t-shirt for now. He'd brought a button-up for dinner, doesn't know exactly how formal such a thing is, but he doesn't want to slob anything on it beforehand. 

"Can I help?" he asks, stepping into the kitchen where pots and pans hiss and bubble, bowls and baking dishes stacked everywhere. 

"Oh I think I might be able to find you _something,"_ Ellie teases, bustling around with speed and grace, her hair curling from the steam, two spots of high color on her cheeks. "The turkey's already in; it should be ready to come out right at two. Let's see." 

The next hour and a half passes in a blur of amazing smells and tastes; Clint named official tested and put in charge of the heavy lifting. He doesn't mind – just the opposite in fact – it feels good carry the huge pot of boiling potatoes from stove to oven for the lady. It's a warm, tickly feeling in the pit of his belly, feels like family, which is something he's never experienced before but that seems pretty damn unmistakable. Robert and Annabelle pop in every once in a while, mostly to sneak bites of different things, but Phil seems to be giving him the space he asks for. He passes through, walks by between tasks, and Clint swears he can feel the man's eyes on him even when he's not there, and it's... 

It's reassuring. 

He needs it too, because while he's happy to see Derek and Beth Bishop and their kids again, reciprocates the hugs and the high-fives and the honest smiles he's afforded, as the rest of the family starts to arrive the nerves settle back in. It _feels_ like meeting the family, and he's not really sure what that means, but it means something and that something is important. 

The aunt arrives first, Astrid, only minutes after Beth and her family. She's loud and colorful and eccentric and everything that her brother Robert isn't, and Clint likes her right away. She's wearing a bright teal puffy jacket and a leopard-print scarf, sparkling pink shoes covered in sequins, and she doesn't even blink when Robert introduces Clint. It's almost like she's heard his name before – and yeah, Clint's starting to see a pattern there – and she gives him a hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek just like she does with everyone else, making a circuit of the room before chasing after Kate and Seth and America, scarf flapping behind her and Lucky barking at her heels. 

She's fucking fantastic, and while Ellie smiles and rolls her eyes indulgently, Clint out-and-out laughs. 

"Watch out for her," Phil warns him quietly, lingering close to his side while he can. "She'll suck you into modeling for her charcoal drawings." 

"Oh don't be silly Phillip," Ellie says, sweeping by with a hand-mixer in her arms. "It's been six months – she's moved on to a new hobby by now. It's miniature topiaries this time; she's making them inside old Altoids tins." 

Phil arches a sardonic eyebrow, makes a small hmmphing sound, and walks off, leaving Clint chuckling to himself as he adds strange hobby-habits to his mental list of family characters. He doesn't want to admit to himself why he's doing it, why he's trying to learn these people, memorize and understand them. He doesn't want to think about where he might be in a year, who he might be to these people and who they might be to him. He doesn't want to think about what his last name will be or what he'll feel comfortable calling Ellie Coulson.

He doesn't want to get ahead of himself. 

He fails miserably. 

He's still supposed to be mad, he knows, but it's a pretty futile effort. 

The Davidsons arrive next, and Clint feels strangely uncomfortable with them. They're the nicest people – Sarah and Samuel – Ellie and Robert's longtime friends and Phil, Annabelle, and Beth's godparents, and they're remarkably normal and average. Suburban, plain as plain, salt-of-the-earth types – and that's probably why they throw Clint off a little. They're just so incredibly... meh. It's wonderful and fascinating and sweet in it's own way, and the Coulson children clearly adore them, and they greet Clint politely if a little flatly before taking Robert and Phil into the living room to discuss real estate. 

Annabelle and the kids are setting the tables and Clint is lifting the turkey out of the oven when the cousin finally arrives, the last one they're waiting on and late according to Ellie's watch. He swans in wearing a suit and a watch that's meant to look expensive, but Clint, who's been staring at Phil's Brooks Brothers and D&G for years knows a knock-off when he sees one. Speaking of knock-off, the unexpected guest he's got hanging off his arm is as fake as anything Clint's ever seen, a bubble-breasted bottle-blonde who's skinnier than she is stupid, and by the time she's been inside three minutes it's pretty obvious he's not dating her for her degree. Jeffrey Coulson is a real piece of work, very obviously either jealous or hateful of his cousin, and when he immediately begins asking Phil about the secret agent business like he thinks it's a cover, Clint very nearly can't bite back a laugh. 

It's a testament to Ellie Coulson's prowess as a homemaker that she's able to corral that houseful of utter chaos, get them all to the tables before there's bloodshed or a screaming match. Clint's seen some disastrous groups before but this is incredible, so many personalities, all so different, all with the potential to clash horribly, and yet they're family, accepting each other's faults if not agreeing with them. He's ready to clock Jeffrey a good one before he's even gotten to the table, and the girlfriend, Celeste, has already started to bat her false eyelashes in his direction. She manages it though, that remarkable lady, and with Clint's help the table is set and surrounded, laden down with a ridiculous amount of food. 

Ellie and Robert take pride of place at either end of the long, narrow table, Clint assigned a seat between Phil and Aunt Astrid. All standing, he nearly jumps when Phil takes his hand, and across from him Kate smirks before very pointedly taking her father's and America's. Astrid smiles indulgently and offers him her own, and he only just has time to realize what's about to happen before it does. Heads bowed, hands clasped, Ellie Coulson says a quiet, heartfelt prayer that Clint feels all the way down to his core. 

"Heavenly Father, we thank thee for this day and these thy blessings, that we may gather here together friends and family and share in this thy bounty and our good health. We give thanks for these gifts and all that you have given us, and ask that you continue to protect and guide those who serve our country and cannot be here today. We ask these things in the name of Christ our Lord. Amen." 

It's a nice prayer. Phil had told him that the Coulson's weren't incredibly religious but had told him to expect the blessing, and he doesn't mind. Him, he's never really thought about it much, isn't sure he can believe in a single higher power after all the things he's seen, but he doesn't find anything wrong with wanting to give thanks, with asking for guidance. Besides, it feels like it's about family, about coming together and giving thanks, not the specific god they're praying to. 

Clint's maybe a little distracted anyway, cause his hand is in Phil's. His grip is firm, dry, solid, as confidant and sure as it ever is, and yeah, Phil's held his hand before. But it's different this time, not only because Clint isn't in the hospital full of holes or coughing up a lung. It's the start of something, and right before he lets go Phil gives the back of his hand a single stroke, sweeping his thumb over his knuckles before letting him go. There are well-hidden nerves on his face when Clint lifts his head and opens his eyes, fear at the corners of his mouth, but he's Hawkeye and he sees it, understands it. He wishes he could've squeezed the man's hand before he let go, given him a little reassurance even if he is still mad because he knows, he _knows_ what it's like to wonder and to want and to think that there's no chance, to be teased with the possibility of maybe and facing the risk of losing it. 

He gets a chance moments later when Ellie Coulson begins a round-robin of stating what she's thankful for that year, and meets his eyes with a warm, tender smile when she names family and new friends. The Davidsons go next but he doesn't hear, already planning what he's going to say, only just catches Aunt Astrid naming planetary alignment and her new pet therapist as things she's thankful for. Then it's his turn and he feels eyes on him hot and heavy and intense, and it's being the center of attention which as a sniper he absolutely hates, but he swallows hard and licks his lips and speaks in a voice that's strong and steady and clear. 

"I'm thankful that seven years ago a secret agent took a chance on a punk kid with a stick and a string from the paleolithic era and offered him a chance to be something better," he says, his cheeks warm and his chest full of a great, terrible ache, so big and bright and wonderful he very nearly can't breathe. 

Phil is staring at him with wide, wondrous eyes, silent and very suddenly hopeful. It's all a little much with the family's eyes on him, so he lifts his glass, toasts Ellie Coulson, and offers her a cheeky wink. 

"Even if he did shoot me first."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, I want turkey dinner!

It takes a few minutes for things to settle down after that little stunt. Phil's cousin scoffs, Kate bursts out laughing, Annabelle immediately starts asking personal questions about anatomy not appropriate to the dinner table, and Phil's mother jumps at him before he even gets the chance to get up his defense. 

"Phillip Jareth Coulson, you _shot_ that boy?" 

"It was a through-and-through!" he yelps, something he immediately knows is the wrong thing to say when he finds himself on the receiving end of _The Look._ "I didn't..." 

" 'S all right Misses C," Clint says over the noise with a shrug and a roguish grin, looking terribly pleased with the chaos he's caused. "It was a great shot – I've always appreciated those." 

Phil glares at him while his mother tuts and fusses, his father shushing her, and if Clint is going to get him into trouble with his own mother, well, Phil won't feel bad about paying him back. 

"I'm thankful for family," he says, raising his voice just slightly and using his _Listen to Me Now_ voice. He can see Clint bite his lip against a laugh but it quiets the rest of them down, gets them back on track. "A family that puts up with me, even when I miss birthdays and can't call and don't have any stories to share that don't start and end with the word _classified."_

Jeffrey huffs quietly into his wine glass, rolls his eyes, but Beth is looking at him warmly and actually reaches across the table to squeeze his fingers, Annabelle kicking him lightly in the ankle in a familiar (if painful) show of sisterly love. Turning in his seat, he looks Clint in the eye, determined to spill his heart here if that's what it takes to make him understand, to make him blush. 

"I'm thankful for the agents that I work with," he continues, slowly and sincerely. "They make the world a better place. They make _my_ world a better place." 

He can hear people _awwing,_ hear people fall silent, but really he can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heart in his ears, the thick, heady silence coming from Clint. The archer is staring at him with unreadable kaleidoscope eyes, with a quietly stunned expression on his face, and he can't help himself, can't _stop_ himself from reaching out and touching him, tucking his fingers beneath Clint's chin and brushing his thumb over the man's cheek. 

_'I love you,'_ he thinks, because it wouldn't be fair to say it out loud. _'I love you so much...'_

"To family," his mother says beside him, and all around him glasses are lifted, the sentiment returned, and it's a blessing no doubt by her design that breaks the moment, that allows him to drop his hand and turn back to the table with just a touch less awkwardness than he had anticipated. From there it's his father who takes pity on him, rising from his seat to take up the carving knife, and dinner becomes the focus of the table. 

Robert Coulson carves the massive, golden turkey with pride and a warm, _happy_ look at his wife, plating slices of white and dark meat both as side dishes get passed around. Mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet corn and cranberries, a casserole of green beans and another of his mother's famous stuffing; the hot, savory dishes move from left to right, and Phil can't help but note each and every brush of Clint's fingers against his own, can't help but read into the fact that the archer isn't shying from him, doesn't jump. The man even offers him the smallest of reassuring smiles, a wry half-grin that Phil is terribly familiar with after all this time, the one that means Clint _is_ hurt, but he's _ok._ He's used to seeing that look in medical, not at a table surrounded by his family and friends, but he finds that he appreciates it all the same. 

It doesn't really make things easier but in a way it does, and he... 

He doesn't get much of a chance to respond either way because Clint's shoveled a forkful of something into his mouth and is moaning with a look of sheer pleasure on his face. 

"This is the best thing I have ever eaten Misses C," he says, leaning around Phil to address his mother, and it hits him hard that Clint still sounds so stiff and formal beneath his playful, teasing tone, is being so careful not to say... what he'd said before. 

Phil doesn't hear what his mother says in reply, is too busy being struck by just how badly he wants Clint to feel comfortable here, with these people he loves so much. When Clint had called his mother _Mama Coulson_ Phil had panicked, and really that had been the start of this whole mess, and now, having made his confessions, more than anything he wants to hear that endearment out of Clint's mouth again, wants to see his mother hug the archer and kiss him on the cheek the same way she does any of her children. 

Beneath the table, Phil moves his leg so that it presses against Clint's from knee to ankle, and he feels the man tense, still, then relax and lean into him and continue eating like this was normal, like this was _good._

The dinner is wonderful. The food is exceptional as always, but more than anything it's the people, the sense of family and home and belonging that he's missed so much that fills him up with warmth and happiness. Now that he's stopped fighting it, stopped pushing it away he isn't surprised by how natural it feels for Clint to fit into that scene, to fit perfectly at his side. Phil watches him throughout the meal, watches him chatter and joke, tease Kate and smile at Beth and even goad Annabelle into laughing, something she generally refuses to do on principal. He praises Phil's mother and makes an effort with his father, who can be a bit distance just by virtue of often having his head in the clouds, full of numbers, and he sits next to Phil and presses their knees together and every once in a while includes him in a bright eyed, happy look that Phil wasn't sure he'd ever have the privilege of receiving again. 

He fits. He never once goes quiet and still the way Phil has seen him do when he wants to go unnoticed, instead seems to become a part of the family like he always had been before. To the casual observer, hell, even to Phil it seems easy, but he knows how much effort Clint must be putting into it, suspects how important this must be to him. He worries that it must feel like a test of some kind to the archer, and snugs his knee up even closer to Clint's. He sees the corner of the man's mouth tick up and he smiles down at his plate, passes the potatoes to his sister who gives him a knowing look. 

Phil just glares, takes a sip of wine and hands Clint the dish of stuffing. The drugs have fully flushed from his system by now, even if he still looks a bit peaky, and his appetite has returned full-force after several days of nausea and eating like a bird. Now he eats like... well, like a SHIELD agent, putting away plate after plate unselfconsciously, and it's good that it's Thanksgiving because everyone else is stuffing themselves right along with him and don't seem to notice. 

By the time everyone starts winding down things have calmed – the kids excused to watch the last of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and the adults engaging in quieter, more serious conversation. The table is a mess and everyone is full, but there's still plenty left, and Clint is the first one up after his mother to help clear. Phil smiles after him and gets a good bump from Beth, a pleased smile as she follows after. He's quick to pick up a handful of plates and help – with Annabelle and Aunt Astrid on his heels it only takes about ten minutes to clear. As they work Sarah and Samuel say their goodbyes - they volunteer at the homeless shelter every year and have to eat and run - but they don't make it out the door without being laden down with hugs and Tupperware containers. The remainder of the many, many leftovers are packaged up, the dishes stacked in the washer, and everything wiped down; it's no deep clean, but it will satisfy his mother for now. 

"Thank you sweetheart," Ellie says, and Phil expects a kiss on the cheek, but turns to find Clint getting one instead, his cheeks pink and his smile small and young and pleased. 

He catches Phil watching and flinches minutely, the light in his eyes dulling as his mother turns away, and Phil is hit once more by all the damage he's done. 

It's past though, right? 

It's past and it's over and things are different now... 

Heedless of his sister lingering behind him at the sink, he offers Clint a smile, tries to put all those happy, contented, easy feelings from dinner into that single expression before reaching out and touching him on the elbow, sliding his hand down to squeeze his fingers. 

"Come on," he murmurs, giving him a tug before letting go. "You've got about a twenty minute reprieve before someone mentions dessert." 

"Ooph," Clint groans, packing away whatever he's feeling and clapping both hands to his belly. _"How?"_

"Please, like you won't be the first one in line," he says, rolling his eyes as he leads them into the living room. "I remember Istanbul." 

Clint laughs, exactly what he was hoping for, the flops down onto the couch beside him when he takes one of the two remaining seats. The kids had gone down to the finished basement where there's television and an old gaming system in the den off his father's office, leaving the adults to range around on the furniture and chat. Beth and Derek are on the loveseat, his father is in his armchair by the patio doors, Annabelle is on the floor near his mother and Aunt Astrid, who occupy the middle of the L-shaped couch and are pointedly ignoring Jeff, who has his new girlfriend in his lap. This leaves Clint and Phil the opposite end, and it's a tight squeeze but he certainly doesn't mind. 

"What happened in Istanbul?" Beth asks as they settle, shooting Phil a look before turning her attention on Clint. 

She's done a lot to engage and encourage him, to include him while he's been here. 

Phil will have to thank her for that. 

"Oh, we were running an op in Turkey," Clint says with a shrug, easy and casual. "I was chasing a guy and crashed through the roof of a bakery, landed in a vat of baklava." 

"He was sticky for weeks," Phil complains, because it was true and because it makes Clint laugh again, as well as most of the others. 

"Yeah, I kept smelling honey and pistachio every time I turned around for like, ever," he chuckles. "I tried to go back and pay for all of it later – it was a _huge_ pan I fell in – but I guess the guy we took in was a pretty big nuisance to the community so they were more than willing to let it go. They gave me like, what do you think Phil, ten pounds of the stuff as a thank you..." 

"And you ate _all_ of it," he reminds him, back to his original point. 

The archer has a _thing_ for dessert that rivals even Phil's sweet tooth. 

"Hey, no I didn't!" he yelps, knocking Phil's knee with his own. "Nat ate, like, _at least_ half." 

Phil just smirks, settles further back into the couch cushions, slouched down to give himself room to digest. Comfortable and quiet, he listens to Beth draw Clint into telling another story, a bit sterilized for civilian consumption, but still suitably amusing and engaging. He can feel the rest of the room paying close attention, following along, and he's reminded not for the first time that Clint is, at his core, a showman. He has them in his thrall as surely as if they were a circus audience, and he wishes, again not for the first time, that he could have known Clint back then, could have seen him captivate a crowded circus tent as easy as shooting. 

Then Jeffrey huffs and the hair on the back of his neck stands up and he knows there's going to be trouble. 

"Interesting that you seem to have a story for all occasions Mr. Barton," he sneers, a look of idle disgust on his face. "When Phil never seems to have anything to say for himself." 

Clint stills but Phil sees the gleam in his eyes, the one he gets when a fresh batch of juniors comes in that thinks it can challenge Hawkeye or the Black Widow. 

Or disrespect _him,_ now that he thinks about it. 

"Nah," he finally says, "Phil's got a couple Levels on me. He gets pulled in on all the big hush-hush. Hell, he's got secrets I'm pretty sure _nobody_ else knows..." 

"That's classified," he replies automatically, and Clint, Beth, Derek, and his mother all laugh. 

"Really Phil," Jeffrey drawls, stroking his hand down the back of his companion possessively – Vanessa, he thinks her name is. "I don't understand why you insist on all these stories. It's obvious they're all made up. What do you really do, data analysis? Banking?" 

Phil expects Clint to jump to his aid, is surprised when he bursts out into fit of delighted giggling. 

"Oh man Boss," he chokes, elbowing Phil chummily "I knew you were good but that's awesome! Even your own _family_ buys your everyman act." 

"No reflection on _me,_ I assure you," he says flatly. 

He's been perfectly open and honest with his family, told them that he's essentially a spy who keeps the world safe and that there's little else he can tell them. 

It's not his fault Jeffrey is too stupid (or jealous, or angry, or _whatever_ it is that he is) to believe him. 

"Please," Jeffrey huffs, eyeing Clint like he thinks he can take him on, with his cheap suit and his thirty-five dollar haircut and his associate's degree in media communications. "What are you even doing here?" 

Beside him Clint stiffens sharply and visibly, his jaw clenching, and Phil lays his hand on his knee before he can do something stupid, like get up and hit his cousin, worse, get up and _run._ He opens his mouth to fire back but his mother beats him to the punch, her eyes fiery and her words distinctly cool. 

"Clint was _invited_ here Jeffrey," she says, eyeing the woman in his lap pointedly. "He's been polite and helpful, has cooked and cleaned and even brought dessert, and is _more_ than welcome in my home whenever he likes." 

Jeffrey withdraws a bit, more than accustomed to the consequences of Ellie Coulson's ire, having nearly been raised by her for much of his life, but is foolish enough to continue. 

"That's not what I _meant_ Aunt Ellie," he whines, making no real attempt to placate her. "I just meant that if Phil is really his boss why is he here?" 

Phil sighs, closes his eyes and drops his head back against the couch cushions. It seems his cousin is determined to bring up all the things working against him right now, all of the things that could destroy what little progress he and Clint have made these last few days. Beside him he senses Clint turn, can feel the man's eyes on him but can't bring himself to meet his gaze, too anxious, too ashamed of having his sins reiterated by his asshole of a cousin to open his own. 

"Does he _really_ expect us to believe that Phil _shot_ him? Like he'd really hang around with him after that?" 

Clint stands up so fast Phil wobbles on the couch as his weight shifts, and he doesn't _have_ to look to know what's happening now. He can hear the man's hands on his belt buckle and now he _definitely_ doesn't look, because his pants are already tight from how much he's eaten and he doesn't need the help of watching Clint strip off in front of god and his sisters and his cougar aunt thank you very much. 

"Agent Barton," he says in his flatest tone, the one he uses when he wants to panic the juniors. "Under no circumstance will you take off your pants in my mother's living room." 

"Aww Sir..." 

"Yeah Phil, don't interrupt," Beth jeers over her husband's booming laughter. 

"If you want to show off your scars, show off another one," he scolds. "Or I'll bury you so deep in T-9 forms you won't see the range for a month." 

Clint sits down faster than he'd stood up, and Phil is sure he's got his innocent face on, the one he hadn't believed but hadn't been able to resist for years. Resigned to his fate, Phil sits up and gives Clint a narrow-eyed look, determined not to give in, but there's a hot gleam in Clint's that's like a suckerpunch to the gut. 

"We could spar instead," he suggests slyly. "Bet he wouldn't believe you can kick my ass either." 

"No fighting please," his mother says, getting to her feet and ruffling Clint's hair affectionately. "Neither of you have anything to prove." 

Jeffrey scoffs but shuts up quick when Ellie shoots him a glare, pushing his date off his lap and onto a seat of her own. 

"Clint, come help me cut the pie, would you sweetheart?" she asks, but Clint's bouncing to his feet before she's even finished. "It was so nice of you to bring it – I can't bake for anything." 

"That's not true Misses C," he argues wholeheartedly as he follows her into the kitchen. "Your pineapple coconut scones are amazing!" 

Phil watches him go, feels something like sheer happiness well up in his chest. Dressed nicely in navy blue-jeans and a soft grey sweater, Clint looks incredible, and is making every attempt even after everything Phil's put him through. He's even tried to tame his butter-blonde hair, an effort easily undone by his mother's petting and Phil wants nothing more than to curl up with him on the couch and cuddle, maybe nap. Not even Jeffrey's derision or Beth's teasing or Annabelle's eye rolls can put a damper on this feeling, not even all his worries and self-flagellation from the night before. 

This, Clint being here with his mom and his family, with him, _loving him,_ he doesn't think he'll let anything overshadow that, especially not his own denial.


	17. Chapter 17

As Clint follows Phil's mom into the kitchen, practically bouncing on his toes, he realizes that the warm, swelling feeling in his chest isn't anxiety but happiness. It's been a long time since he's felt like this on a holiday, since he's fully enjoyed the experience without the lingering sadness that comes with being an orphan lurking underneath. There's been plenty of angst to work his way through of course, but it feels like he's past it, and as he pulls out the stack of pies he'd baked at HQ, he wonders if that means he's not mad any more. 

A small part of him wants to be. 

He probably should be. 

But he's wanted this for so long it seems silly to waste any more time. 

"I hope you won't take anything Jeffrey says to heart dear," Ellie says as she rifles through a drawer and comes up with a gleaming cake server. "That boy... I swear, sometimes I don't know where I went wrong." 

"With all due respect ma'am," Clint argues as politely as he can, "That's ridiculous. You raised Phil Coulson. Anything else... that's all on him. You... you're a good mom." 

He's blushing, looking down at the countertop, but Ellie just bumps his shoulder with hers and hands him the server. 

"You are a sweetheart, aren't you?" she teases softly, rounding the island and heading for the coffee maker. "I can see why he loves you so much." 

Clint freezes with a pie halfway out of the box, winded like he's been sucker punched. 

Phil's said it, Clint thinks he believes it, but it's still... 

It's still new, and crazy, and so, so important, and hearing Phil's _mom_ say it, who maybe knows him better than anyone... 

It's a lot. 

He can't think of anything to say, so he starts slicing pie in silence, the quiet warm and easy as Ellie flutters about efficiently, getting coffee service onto a try and digging out a wide array of mis-matched mugs. He's just started laying out a row of small paper plates when she lifts the tray and balances it on one hand, the full, steaming pot in the other. 

"Back in a mo'," she says with a smile and a wink, and then she's disappearing through the door into the living room. 

Clint chuckles – he can't help it – then crosses to the fridge to pull out the carton of heavy whipping cream he'd seen earlier. He's pouring it into a bowl and grabbing a whisk out of the countertop canister when several pairs of feet come thundering up the stairs from the basement. Seth snatches two plates of pie and disappears again with hollered thanks, Lucky on his heels, but Kate and America see what he's doing and wait at the edge of the counter with bright, hopeful eyes. 

"Are you making _homemade_ whipped cream?" America asks in awe. 

"Yup," he answers with a grin, sprinkling in a little of the sugar Ellie had left out from the coffee tray. "Want some?" 

"Yes please!" Kate says gleefully. "How'd you learn to do that? I've only ever seen it in a can." 

"I mostly grew up in a circus," he says easily, because kids only ever see the good side of something like that. "Learned all kinds of things while I was there. Got a great recipe for funnel cake too!" 

"Is that where you learned to shoot your bow?" Kate asks, bouncing on her toes. 

Clint pauses, surprised, but Kate just grins brightly. 

"Uncle Phil says you're the greatest marksman that ever lived!" 

"He..." 

Huh. 

Clint had gotten the impression that Phil had mentioned him to his family before, but... not like _that._

"Would you show us?" America asks, elbowing Kate in the ribs. 

Phil's niece promptly blushes but keeps her chin up. 

"Please Clint!" she pleads, "Bow and arrow is so cool!" 

Clint bites his lip, torn between his showmanship nature, his delight in finding someone else who thinks archery is 'cool,' and Ellie Coulson's admonishment that there be no violence in her home. Not that archery is always violent, or that he thinks Ellie Coulson _believes_ that given her own history, but it's _her_ home, Kate is _Beth's_ kid... 

"If you don't want to..." Kate hedges, her smile dimming at his prolonged silence. 

"No, I just..." he fumbles, continuing to stir the thickening whipped cream, and this time Kate's grin is slow and sly. 

"Aw come on," she wheedles, eyes glinting in an unsettlingly familiar way. "Don't you wanna show off for my uncle?" 

"He's seen me shoot," Clint says stupidly, because apparently the flaming heat in his cheeks makes him incapable of a decent comeback. "I don't need to show off for him." 

"Sure," Kate drawls as America snickers behind her hand, hooking her thumb toward the corner of the counter. "That's why you're using a whisk when the electric mixer is _right there..."_

"Tastes better this way," Clint argues, because maybe that hadn't exactly been his plan, but he's certainly guilty of having flexed for Phil in the past. 

"Yeah, and shows off your muscles for days," Kate huffs, rolling her eyes. "Don't even front." 

Horrified, Clint drops the bowl with a clatter and stupidly hides one hand behind his back, using the other to grab a spoon from the counter and stuff a blob of whipped cream into Kate's mouth. She scowls at him for all of half a second before humming happily, and Clint takes it as a sign that the conversation has moved on to safer ground, so he hands America one too and starts scooping dollops onto the line of pie slices. 

"Anyway, I kinda got into archery a few years ago," Kate says, licking the back of her spoon a minute later. 

"Oh yeah?" 

"Yeah, just reading and stuff, but it looks super cool. Plus, me 'n America wanna start a new club at school. Everybody's so into soccer and volleyball that there's no room on the team for new people to join." 

"Wow," Clint says with a frown, pausing to look up at the two of them. "That... that really sucks." 

"Yup. So we figured archery would be cool cause it could be a team sport but still individual, so there's room for whoever wants to join." 

"That's a pretty good idea," he says with a grin, suddenly just as excited as the two teenagers standing in front of him. "I could probably... hmm." 

"You could definitely help!" America cheers, and Kate pumps her fist. 

"Yeah! Please Clint! You could teach us how to shoot your bow and then..." 

"I don't think you're gonna be able to shoot my bow Katie Cat," Clint chuckles, dropping his spoon into the sink and digging up some plastic wrap to cover the last of the whipped cream. "Muscles for days remember?" 

"I've got muscles!" 

"Where?" he teases, watching Kate and America flex their biceps. 

"Ok, not like yours," she says with an epic roll of her eyes. "I mean, you could benchpress us. Wait, _could you_ benchpress us?" 

"Please tell me you're not flirting with my agent." 

_"Ewww!"_

Clint and Kate both jump at Phil's sudden, deadpan accusation, yelping in sync, then turn on each other with narrowed eyes. 

_"Hey!"_

"I'm _gay_ Uncle Phil!" Kate grumbles, and Clint isn't surprised to see America's cheeks pink up this time, even as Phil crosses behind her to wrap his niece up in a hug. 

"And we love you just the way you are," he says seriously, making both the girls laugh. 

"Yeah, yeah, get off me," Kate huffs, but not before she sneaks in a hug of her own. 

"Eh, don't worry about it kid," Clint says with a shrug, as Phil collects up an armful of pie plates to carry into the living room, winking at America in the process. "You're not my type either." 

"Oh what, _awesome's_ not your type?" she challenges. 

"No," he replies, watching Phil's... um, _back_ as he disappears through the door. "No, awesome is..." 

"Oh man, you got it so bad." 

"Shut up," Clint mutters, and Kate and America both snicker again, picking up a plate of pie apiece. "Seriously though, if it's cool with your mom, I'll bring one you guys can try next time ok?" 

Both girls visibly brighten, grin excitedly at each other and slap high fives. 

"Thanks Clint!" they chorus, and then they're disappearing back down the basement stairs, leaving Clint shaking his head. 

"Next time?" 

Clint freezes, his shoulders going high and tight. Phil's appeared just as silently as he had before, but this time his tone is far less teasing and far more curious, more intense. 

"Yeah, I..." he tries, turning around to face his boss, his friend, his... his _something,_ even as he's too much of a wimp to meet his eyes, choosing instead to fidget with the hem of the button-down he'd slipped into before dinner. "I mean I thought..." 

Phil advances on him, takes a short step forward into Clint's space and his heart gives a thud, starts to pick up as Phil slips his arms around him. 

"I like next time," he says softly, and everything inside of Clint goes warm and melty around the edges. 

Then he's giving Clint a shit-eating grin and grabbing the last four plates of pie, stepping back again. 

"Jerk," he mutters halfheartedly, grabbing the last of the forks and following a chuckling Phil toward the living room. 

"Sorry," he says, unrepentant, "But mom sent me in with a mission." 

"I wondered where she went," Clint says as they round the corner, catching sight of Ellie perched primly on the edge of the couch, sipping her coffee in silence. "Was hoping she'd save me from your niece." 

"She was chewing out Jeff," Phil mutters out the side of his mouth, and Clint actually stalls, stops in the middle of the floor before collecting himself enough to follow. 

"She didn't..." 

Phil just arcs an eyebrow at him, and Clint shuts up. 

She didn't have to do it for him. Didn't _have_ to defend _him,_ but he doesn't mind her defending Phil. That had basically been the point – cousin Jeff is kind of a huge dick – and it _is_ Ellie Coulson's house. That means it's her rules, so if she would rather put herself to the trouble than have Clint jumping into the fray, he guesses that's her right. 

He's gotta admit though, it's kinda hard with Jeff glaring at the both of them across the coffee table, even as he stuffs his face with Clint's pie. 

"This is great Clint," Beth praises from the loveseat, breaking the silence as her husband hums in happy agreement, a slice of pumpkin in each of their laps. "Where'd you learn to bake? Phil's terrible in the kitchen – dad too." 

"Aw, he's not so bad with an MRE," Clint ribs, earning himself a couple of laughs and an elbow from the man himself. "I was actually just telling Kate – I uh, sort of grew up in a travelling circus? You help cook you're guaranteed to eat, so I learned pretty quick. I, uh," he chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, "I make a pretty good Louisiana gumbo." 

The group is awkwardly quiet - the difference between what kids understand and what adults do right there – until Annabelle sniffs and shrugs her shoulders. 

"I'll be the judge of that," she says, and Clint is taken aback, because something in her tone is softer, more understanding than it's been so far. 

"Annabelle did her undergraduate work in Louisiana," Phil explains, and he looks at her with surprise, not because he didn't believe it, but because now it sounds like _she's_ defending him, in her own way. "She was there for four years, came back fluent in French with a Bourbon Street attitude and a Mardi Gras tattoo." 

"A _what?"_ Ellie asks in sharp surprise, and Annabelle casts Phil a nasty glare, but Clint just barks a laugh. 

"Avez-vous déjà visité le cimetière de St. Louis?" he asks - _Did you ever visit the St. Louis Cemetery?_

"Oui, j'ai fait un croquis de la tombe de Marie Laveau!" she replies, with a decent French-creole accent. "I even got to go to a voodoo wedding there once!" 

"Sweet!" Clint grins. "Our tarot reader Miss Fontenot was a bayou-girl; Carson's stopped into Naw'lins every year around Mardi Gras." 

"That city is filthy," Jeffrey cuts in, buffing his manicured fingernails on his lapel. "Full of _pickpockets."_

"Huh," Clint offers flatly, even as Annabelle's face goes flat and cold, a very 'Agent Coulson' look. "Funny, I never had that problem." 

Jeffrey casts him a simpering sort of sneer, then gets to his feet and heads up the hallway towards the bathroom. Beth and Ellie both roll their eyes, but Annabelle watches him go with an icy, calculating look that Clint knows very, very well, and gets up to follow him silently half a minute later. Clint flicks a questioning glance in Phil's direction but he'd very blatantly avoiding his eyes, instead focusing on his pie and his conversation with his father and brother-in-law. 

Two minutes later, Jeffrey comes hustling back down the hallway just a little too fast, his face like a sheet and his eyes wide as he glances nervously back over his shoulder.

**AVAVA**

An hour later everyone is saying their goodbyes, shuffling containers of Tupperware and hustling into coats. Jeffrey and his date have been snubbed, waved goodbye and sent on their way without a leftover between them while Aunt Astrid and Beth have both been laden down with as much as they can carry. The kids are bouncing around excitedly – how they have so much energy is beyond Clint – chattering to David about all their plans to get Clint to start an archery club at their school. For his part David is all for it, and Beth just smiles indulgently when Clint asks her permission.

"Who better for them to learn from than the World's Greatest Marksman?" she teases, pinching his cheek playfully before offering him a real hug. "It was good to see you again Clint. I'm glad you were here." 

"Yeah, me too," he says hoarsely, and then the next thing he knows the house has cleared out and most everyone's gone home, and a quiet calm falls where noisy, wonderful chaos had been in its place. Robert Coulson is already on his way back to his chair, Annabelle has disappeared upstairs with her book, and Ellie is already heading toward the kitchen. 

"Well I suppose I should get the last of those dishes into the machine," she sighs, and Clint immediately jumps to follow. 

"I'll help," he volunteers, because she looks a little tired and because it's only fair. 

"You don't have to do that sweetheart," she argues gently, stepping into the kitchen. 

"Twice the hands, half the work," Clint shrugs. "Learned that in the circus too." 

"Careful darling," she warns over the open door of the dishwasher. "Keep talking like that and you'll make me want to keep you forever." 

The lid of the casserole dish in Clint's hands rattles as he nearly fumbles the thing, only just managing to catch it as he looks up at her, stunned. 

"That... I mean, I..." 

"Never had anyone to look after you before, have you," she murmurs, reaching out to cup his cheek in her hand, all warmth and softness and kind, gentle eyes, and something inside of Clint breaks a little, some of the ice, some of the wall he's built up. 

"Phil does," he stumbles, "Did. I mean, he..." 

"Now you listen to me Clint Barton," she says, all sweet sternness, even as his throat closes up on him. "You've slept in my home. You've sat at my table. You've worked and played, bled and cried here. You've made my son happier than I've seen him in years. You're family now, no matter what happens. Don't you forget that." 

Clint barely manages to choke out a _yes ma'am_ before she's leaning over and dragging him into a hug, wrapping him up tight in her arms even though she's barely half his size. It's everything a hug from a mom should be, warm and strong and encompassing, and he has to sniff and clear his throat a little when she finally lets go. 

"Everything ok?" 

Clint startles when Phil pipes up but Ellie just smiles and wipes her eyes, crosses the kitchen to take the tray of coffee service he's brought in from the living room. 

"Of course sweetheart," she replies, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. "Why don't you two take a nap; I'm just going to finish the last of these and I'll be headed that way myself." 

"Sounds good mom," Phil murmurs, and then he's arching an inquiring eyebrow in Clint's direction and gesturing toward the hallway. 

Clint swallows and nods, hesitating just a moment before darting in to hug Mama Coulson one last time. He might not be saying out loud again any time soon, not till he knows where he and Phil stand, but that's who she is now, what she is. God she's one of the closest things Clint's had to a mom all his life – he can't not... 

She looks surprised by his overture but terribly pleased, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest as he turns away, almost as much as Phil's hand lighting warmly on the small of his back. It stays there, a small but comforting weight until they reach his old bedroom and they both slip inside, closing the door behind them. He's reluctant to step away from it but his jeans have been cutting unpleasantly into his waist since his second piece of pie, and the tryptophan from all that turkey is catching up with him. He just wants to climb into a pair of sweats, hunker down in the bed, and... cuddle. 

As he steps into the middle of the room and drops his pants, Phil makes a soft, choking sort of sound behind him and he realizes that if he wants to, he totally can. 

It's his call – the world's only waiting on him to make it. 

"Want to put on some Dog Cops?" Phil asks, his voice low in deference to the whole late-afternoon-napping concept. "I've got the DVD's in here somewhere." 

"Sure," Clint agrees, tugging down the quilt and climbing into the middle of the mattress. "Little noise'd be good." 

Phil doesn't comment, just offers him a delayed nod after a moment's pause. Then he's fishing the DVD case out of a bookshelf and popping the disc into the TV atop the dresser, quickly trading his own clothes out for a pair of lounge pants and a t-shirt, and climbing in carefully beside him. Clint waits until he's got himself situated, half propped up against the pillows with the remote in his hand, before rolling over and snuggling up against his side. 

He thinks about saying something, anything, but he's too tired for the talk he knows they need to have and right now, in this moment, he just wants what he's been offered, a quick nap in a warm bed on a full belly. Mama Coulson was right – he's had so few moments like this in his life that it's hard to pass them up, even for good reason. 

What he'd said was true too though – Phil took care of him. 

Hell, that was how they'd gotten into this whole mixed up mess, Phil doing something stupid because he thought he was taking care of Clint. 

He'll hold him to their conversation, make sure that they have it, so for now, it's safe for Clint to have this, to take it. 

Rubbing his cheek against Phil's ribs, he sighs and lets himself start to drift, only just registering the weight of a hand in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> All right Marvel fans, let me know what you think! 


End file.
